Lone Star and Union Jack
by Crystal Rose of Pollux
Summary: A collection of short fics focusing on Mike and Davy's friendship, varying in timeline position and in genre. Story 18: Sometimes, all you can offer for comfort are words. But, sometimes, that's enough. Done for two requests.
1. A Pesky Little Thing Called Rent

_Notes: The characters aren't mine (except for random OCs) and the stories are! This is a series of unrelated vignettes and short fics surrounding the friendship of Mike and Davy (fictional/TV personas only)—they are going to vary in timeline position (some, like this one, will be pre-series, while others will be episode-based, etc) and in genre. The main reason I wanted to start this short story collection is because of the importance of memories in my other ongoing fic, "Red Sky, Take Warning," especially since Mike will be taking a more pivotal role in that in the upcoming chapters; as such, his memories, particularly his memories of Davy, will be key. I do have a backstory for their fictional selves, and this story collection will help me flesh that out more. One more thing: I'm writing these short stories as I get inspired for them, so they will be out of order; I will, however, make it clear as to when each story takes place._

* * *

**Malibu, CA; three years prior:**

Mike was pacing the floor of the beachhouse he had rented only a few months ago. Things were not working out as he had hoped. When he had moved to California from Texas and rented the place out, he had been under the assumption that he would've found a steady job with a chance to write and perform some songs during his spare time. What he had found was a lot of spare time, no jobs available, and not very many chances to perform his music. The money Aunt Kate had given him to get started would only last for so long at this rate—and at that said rate, it wouldn't last long enough to cover all of his expenses. The landlord, Mr. Babbitt, would be expecting the next rent payment any day now—another dig into Mike's dwindling finances.

Mike exhaled, knowing what he had to do. Grabbing a marker and a piece of paper, he began to write.

_Roommate wanted to share rent and utilities expenses at pre-furnished beachhouse:  
1334 North Beechwood Drive, Malibu.  
Ask for Mike_.

He added the phone number underneath his name, and picked up the finished flyer, sighing as he looked at it.

"Man, what are you getting yourself into…?" he asked himself aloud.

He had been a loner all his life; taking in a roommate had been the last thing on his mind—and, indeed, the last thing he wanted to do. At 18, Mike had wanted to prove that he could make it on his own, far from home. Writing this flyer had indeed wounded his pride, and it would only get worse the more he went through with this.

More than that, Mike wasn't sure how on Earth he'd get along with a roommate. Just the thought of having to share this space with anyone else was more frustrating and annoying than anything else he could possibly imagine. But he would have to contend with grated nerves if it meant being able to stay. And besides, there were two bedrooms; perhaps it could work out, and he could just avoid his roommate as much as possible.

The boy stood up now, holding the competed flyer. One flyer wouldn't be enough, he knew, but this was a huge step. Perhaps if he could go through with posting the first flyer, the rest would be easier.

But where to post it?

Mike thought for a moment before deciding on the bulletin board at the nearby bus depot; a lot of people posted notices and advertisements all the time, and Mike often went there to look for available odd jobs. The boy's mind was rather blank as he got into his red Pontiac—another gift from Aunt Kate—and drove to the bus depot.

No one gave him a second glance as the passengers and travelers in the depot filed around him, yet Mike felt that all eyes were on him. More than anything, he wanted to just get this over with.

As he crossed the expense of the room, heading to the bulletin board, he caught bits and pieces of conversations. Mike didn't think twice about them, either, though his ears took notice of a voice with an accent he had never heard before.

"What do you mean there's an international baggage surcharge? For the plane, yes, I believe that—and I paid for it! But you mean to tell me there's one for the bloomin' bus, too? You must be joking!"

Despite himself, Mike took a look. A boy even younger than him—and much shorter, too—was standing beside a cart piled with luggage, clearly tired and jet-lagged as he argued with the man in the information booth.

"Them's the breaks, Kid," the man in the booth said. "You want to get a ride to one of the hotels downtown, you're gonna have to pay the international baggage fees. But, I'll tell you what; you can pay it to me here, and I'll send it to where it needs to go."

The boy grumbled to himself, pulling out a wallet.

"Hey, that's English money, isn't it?" the man in the booth asked.

"Brilliantly observant, you are," the young boy said, his voice dripping with cold sarcasm.

"Yeah, well, you're going to have to pay up a currency exchange fee, too."

"…_What_."

It wasn't a question. It was an utterance of disbelief.

"Look, Kid, it's not up to me," Information Booth Man said, pulling out a regulations manual. "It's all right in here if you don't believe me. But I'll see to it that the money goes to where it belongs."

Mike shook his head as the boy grudgingly started to pull the money out of his wallet. Information Booth Man was lying through his teeth just to fatten his own pockets, knowing that the kid wouldn't bother to look through the manual. Suppressing a smirk, Mike walked over, deciding that he was going to call the man's bluff.

"Hey, can I see that that there book?" he asked. "You know, that international baggage fee thing? See, I'm planning a trip down to Mexico, and I need to know the rates, so as long as you've got that book out, I'd like to take a look."

Information Booth Man let out an "…Uh?" as he stared at Mike. The English boy looked up at Mike, as well, slightly taken aback by the Texan boy's height.

Mike quickly dropped playing innocent and narrowed his eyes.

"You heard me, Man; I want to see that info in plain black and white—or shall I ask one of your supervisors do the research?"

"Ah, well…" Information Booth Man said, quickly paging through the regulations manual. "Oh, my, look at this—it seems that the international baggage fee was very recently thrown out; it no longer applies."

"I thought so," Mike said, smugly.

"Well, that's a small miracle anyway," the English boy said, pocketing his money again. "But I still need to get downtown and find a hotel."

"Well, take a look at one of the maps over here," Mike said, jerking his thumb towards the bus route charts on the walls. "You, uh… you traveling by yourself?"

"Yeah; I've always wanted to visit the Colonies," the boy said, stifling a yawn as he lugged the cartful of suitcases over to the wall. "My grandfather sent me here after I'd begged him enough times; he set me up with some posh private school and expects me to stay in the dormitories."

"You're getting a hotel room instead of staying in the dorms?" Mike asked his eyebrows arched.

"Well, wouldn't you?" the boy asked. "I know what those dormitories are like—curfew at 9:00, lights out at 10:00, and no girls allowed within 100 feet of the boys' dormitories. It's like a military barracks! Well, I don't intend to have any of it; I'm getting a reimbursement from the school for lodging costs and using it for myself."

"And you're how old?"

"Fourteen."

"So… how do you expect to rent a hotel room when you're a minor?"

"Eh?"

"They're not going to rent out a room to a kid like you. And if you do find someone willing to bend the rules, they're sure to try to take you for a ride like that guy back there did," Mike added, staring pointedly at Information Booth Man.

"What are you talking about?" the boy asked, his eyes widening.

"There was never any international baggage fee for the bus lines—he was just trying to get some money from you."

The boy's eyes flared and the turned on his heel.

"That smug daylight robber…!" he hissed, heading for him.

"Whoa, there!" Mike said, holding him back. "I agree, that was unacceptable of him, but there's no need to make an international incident out of it. You don't want to get arrested on your first day in America, do you?"

The boy froze.

"Good point," he mumbled. "Grandfather made it clear that if he heard of any trouble, it's back to England I go."

Mike wasn't so sure this hotheaded kid's grandfather had made the right decision by setting him loose—and across the ocean, yet. On the other hand, by the sound of things, the kid probably hadn't given him much of a choice in the matter.

"Yeah, well," he said aloud. "Good luck with… school and everything. And stay out of trouble."

Mike crossed to the bulletin board and pinned his flyer to it. But when he turned to go, he was surprised to see the younger English boy looking at it.

"Hey… Mike, is it? You're looking for a roommate?"

Mike let out a hollow laugh.

"That's right, Tiny; roommate—_not_ to adopt a kid."

The boy scowled.

"Well, I'm not looking for a guardian, either," he said, icily. "I've got one already that I'm finally far enough away from so that I can live my life my own way. And the name isn't Tiny; it's David."

Mike took a moment to register the kid's name before continuing with his explanation of his refusal.

"All the same, I need a roommate who can prevent my sorry self from being evicted. What do you know about paying rent and utilities?"

"Enough to know that you can't do it on your own, and that you need someone with the money to help you out," the boy replied, pulling out his wallet again. "Grandfather will send me money every month to pay for my school expenses—and I'll always get the housing reimbursed, so you know I won't skip on the rent."

Mike stared at the English boy in utter disbelief. How on Earth could he live under the same roof as this little smart-aleck and stay sane? On the other hand, he did make some sense—Mike had no use for a roommate who wouldn't be able to pay his share of the rent when Mr. Babbitt came around. And the kid did seem very independent and feisty, even if inexperienced with the world; he clearly wanted to be on his own, and that would, hopefully, mean that he would stay out of the way. Mike wouldn't have to have any other association with him; the kid wanted to be on his own? He'd get his wish.

"Okay, you can stay," Mike said, pulling the flyer from the bulletin board. "But you're going to have to handle all of your little affairs on your own; I don't want to see you bringing your troubles to me, and don't expect me to hover over you and make sure you're doing your homework. In fact, just pretend that I'm not even there; you chip in for your own food and fend for yourself."

"Trust me when I say that it will be easy," Davy assured him. "Very well, then; now that we've settled that, lead on."

Though Mike moved to help push the cartful of luggage, Davy quickly took control of the cart on his own; he didn't need any help, and he was more than determined to prove it. Mike kept his expression neutral, biting back a smirk; he didn't want to let on—both to Davy and to himself—that he was actually finding him amusing. Was that why he had given in and let him come along?

Mike led the way back to his Pontiac, standing by in the driver's seat as he watched Davy insist on loading each of the suitcases into the back seats of the car himself. When he had finished, Davy had all but collapsed into the front passenger seat from a mixture of exhaustion and jet lag.

"You may drive on," the English boy said, reclining the seat back and sighing with contentment.

"And that's another thing we need to get cleared up here," Mike said. "Yeah, it's true I've got a set of wheels. Just don't get too comfortable in that passenger seat, okay? Part of the 'pretend I'm not around' thing also includes the obligatory 'don't expect me to drive you around everywhere.' And I'm assuming you're smart enough to figure out that driving it yourself is out of the question, so you're going to have to learn how to hoof it around this place, or learn how to get bus rides around town without being conned into all sorts of phony fees and charges."

He had been waiting for another quip from the English boy, but none came; Mike quickly gave him a sideways glance and saw that it had only taken a few seconds for the exhausted boy to fall asleep.

That slightly-amused smile found its way onto Mike's face. All that fire, all that spunk… this kid was something else. He was out to prove something, and, hopefully, he'd manage to do it without getting into too much trouble.

_Don't try so hard, Tiny_…

Perhaps Mike could give him a few pointers—things he'd learned during his short time alone. That might help make things easier for Davy as he learned to fly on his own wings. Mike did have the advantage of a few more years' worth of knowledge in doing balancing acts with time constraints and budgets, and how to avoid unscrupulous scammers from trying to con him again…

The Texan boy quickly caught himself in mid-thought, shaking the sentiments from his head.

_Watch yourself there, Mike_, he said to himself. _You've got enough on your plate to worry about already without looking out for the kid, as well. You don't want amusement to turn into concern_.

And yet, as he drove down the streets of Malibu, heading back for the beachhouse that he would now have to share, Mike couldn't ignore the little voice in his head saying that it was too late to avoid being concerned…

…But that it may not be such a bad thing.


	2. Why We Can't Have Nice Things

_Notes: This second vignette takes place a few months after the first one; I'm trying my hand a bit of comedy here, which is, admittedly, more of a challenge for me than drama is_…

* * *

**Malibu, CA; three years prior:**

Initially, Davy and Mike did keep to themselves, despite living under the same roof. Once Davy started attending classes, the two were hardly home at the same time—Davy spent mornings and afternoons at classes, arriving home by evening after spending a couple hours with whatever girl currently held his interest, or after spending time at a nearby equestrian club, while his Saturdays often entailed him staying out doing either of those things the entire day. Mike, on the other hand, had managed to get a part-time job waiting tables that took up his evenings and the early half of the night; he hated it, and would often vent by sequestering himself in his room upstairs and putting his frustrations into his musical creativity well into the night.

Davy never seemed to be disturbed by these late-night musical sessions; usually, he was asleep by the time Mike got started, though, sometimes—usually on Friday and Saturday nights—Davy would amble back in around midnight. Several times, Mike had felt the need to talk to him about his late-night gallivanting, but bit his tongue as he reminded himself of his decision not to get involved.

Sunday was the only day where the two roommates had to contend with each other (even then, they did try to keep their distance). Sunday was also the day that Mike traditionally made extra-strong garlic bread for breakfast. And every Sunday morning, Davy had to contend with the offending odor wafting its way through the entire beachhouse, waking him up hours before he would've liked after turning in so late the night before. And the same thing happened week after week.

_Pretend I'm not even here, he says_, Davy silently fumed, trying and failing to ignore the pungent scent. _Well, that's easy enough for him—he __likes__ that garlic smell. What's he trying to do—keep away vampires?_

He had considered complaining to Mike about the overpowering smell of the garlic, but realized that Mike would probably counter that he was just being difficult—and remind him that they had agreed to keep their distance from each other.

Well, fine. But if Mike was going to assume that he could go on make that extra-strong garlic bread without any opposition at all, he was sorely mistaken.

Davy had planned his brilliant counterattack strategy carefully; he had stopped at the market one Saturday night on his way back to the beachhouse and had bought a couple cans of sauerkraut.

The next morning, when Mike placed the garlic bread in the oven and went about his business as per usual, Davy got up just as the garlic smell started to spread and started boiling the sauerkraut in a large pot on the stove. He had no intentions of actually eating it; he didn't even know if he was preparing it right, but he did know that this would be the quickest way to get the smell of the pickled cabbage out and about and challenge the existing odious odor of the garlic bread.

He sat down at the table after setting it all up, waiting. He realized he had succeeded in his endeavor when, upon reentering from his room upstairs, the Texan's first reaction was to wrinkle his nose in disgust.

Mike's eyes quickly found the pot of sauerkraut, and when he looked back at Davy, he saw the self-satisfied smirk on the English boy's face. And it was then that Mike realized what this was all about.

_Smirk all you want now, Tiny_, Mike silently transmitted to the younger boy. _You don't know who you're dealing with. But I'm certainly going to make sure you find out before the day is through_.

Mike casually started to whistle as he headed for the refrigerator, pulling out a rather smelly piece of fish. Mike hadn't intended to make fish any more than Davy had intended to have sauerkraut, but now, in his opinion, was the perfect time for it.

The smirk was quickly wiped from Davy's face as he realized what Mike was going to do. Sure enough, the smell of the frying fish was soon filling the room, and for his own sanity, Davy had to step outside, gulping in the fresh air.

_So you're bringing in the heavy artillery? Fine. I can top that. …I hope…_ he thought. How could he possibly find something more overpowering than that horrible fish? And how long had that fish been in the fridge for, anyway? Davy shook that last thought from his mind—he probably didn't want to know.

The young Englishman now took a walk; perhaps his head would get even clearer the more he distanced himself from the smell. He wasn't about to let Mike have the last word in this—never mind that they hadn't actually said anything to each other.

As Davy's walk took him past a small international market, it was there that he got a flash of inspiration on how to deal with the problem. He headed inside, pausing at counter full of various cheeses from all over the world. The Stilton blue was what Davy was looking for. He knew of it all too well; his grandfather had taken a liking for the odorous cheese—a liking that Davy never picked up, and a liking that he was certain that Mike would not have picked up, either.

That established, the boy quickly ordered up a sizeable piece of the cheese.

"You sure you want _that_ stuff?" the man at the counter asked.

"Exactly," Davy agreed.

"…You must have guts of iron."

"Oh, it's not for me. It's for my roommate."

"He likes this stuff?"

"Actually, I'm banking on the fact that he doesn't," Davy said, with a mischievous smirk playing about his lips.

The man behind the counter gave Davy an understanding look, smirking back.

"I get it," he said. "What's a buddy for if you can't play pranks on him, right? You two must be pretty close."

Davy wasn't prepared for that; of all the things he and Mike were, close certainly wasn't one of them.

The man shrugged off Davy's silence and handed him the Stilton cheese, which Davy paid for.

As Davy headed back to the beachhouse, he had to wonder as to why he was going through all this trouble. Aggravating a roommate was a risky thing to do, he realized; unless you were close, like the man said, you ran the risk of being thrown out.

Well, it didn't matter if they weren't close; Davy was going to see this plan through. After all, Mike had started it with that garlic bread, hadn't he?

When Davy returned to the beachhouse, he took note that his pot of sauerkraut was still on the stove, next to the fish, albeit with the burner turned off. Mike was nowhere in sight; Davy assumed he was trying to escape the smell by hiding in his room.

Davy now got another pan from the cookware collection and placed it on one of the free burners, placing the Stilton cheese in it, assuming that it would melt and spread the smell. And it didn't take long for the offensive odor of the cheese to successfully overpower the fish as Davy had hoped.

Apparently, the smell of the cheese was powerful enough to make its way to the upstairs bedroom, because very loud exclamation of disgust erupted from the room, and Mike came barreling down the small spiral stairwell, resorting to breathing through his wool hat as he looked around for the source of the stench.

Davy knew that he had won this round. Folding his arms in triumph, he addressed Mike for the first time in… well, for the first time in quite a while, actually—it dawned on him that they rarely had spoken to each other, mostly due to them not being around at the same time, and partly because of their (naturally) unspoken agreement not to get in each other's way with what was deemed to be unnecessary chatter.

"Do you surrender, then?" Davy asked.

Mike, his eyes narrowed, removed his wool-hat-turned-gas-mask long enough to hiss back, "_Never_."

What erupted after that moment could only be described as culinary pandemonium of the highest degree. There was only one free burner left on the stove, so both boys were scrambling around the kitchen area, trying to find whatever smelly items they could throw together and then racing for the final burner.

In the end, Mike won, having thrown together Aunt Kate's chili recipe, which the entire family described as "an edible volcano." This time, Mike had been generous with the onions and threw in a lot of garlic—and he then proceeded to throw every last chili pepper in the fridge into the concoction, including a half a dozen habanero peppers.

That last decision had proven to be a mistake. Sure, Davy had to resort to sticking his head out an open window every 15 seconds just to breathe, but Mike hadn't counted on the fact that the six habanero peppers would've released a spice vapor so intense that it would send _him_ into a coughing fit, as well, his eyes streaming tears—and the mixture of scents only made it that much worse. Mike soon found himself sharing the open window with Davy, who was also coughing from the latest addition.

Any further attempts to progress with the battle were, at that point, cut short as a loud pounding came from the front door. Without even waiting for a response, the door opened to reveal Mr. Babbitt, his eyes blazing in full fury as he covered his nose and mouth with a handkerchief.

And Mike and Davy could only stare back like two deer caught smack in a car's headlights.

"Do you two have any idea what you're doing?" Mr. Babbitt demanded.

"Ah, well…" Mike said, stammering and coughing at the same time. "We-we-we… we, uh… We were just…"

"Trying to cook breakfast?" Davy offered.

"Trying to cook breakfast," Mike agreed.

"You're lowering the property values—that's what you're doing!" the landlord countered. "You're peeling the paint off the walls with this stench! You know from how far away you could smell this?"

"You know, personally, I think some questions are better left unanswered…" Mike said, as Davy nodded in agreement.

"Yeah, well, I've got an answer as to how to deal with this—permanently!"

"You're throwing us out?" Davy asked, his eyes widening in horror.

"Believe me, I'd like to, but I'm too nice a guy!" Mr. Babbitt snarled. "So, from now on, there's a new rule—no stoves allowed! I'm getting the stove and oven taken out of here and all my other buildings! If you want to cook something, you're going to have to make do with a hot plate and a countertop toaster oven!"

Davy did relax somewhat, but still knew that it was not time to get comfortable just yet.

"Now that we've settled that," Mr. Babbitt said, as he now pointed to the odorous items on the stove and in the oven. "Get rid of that stuff! Take it to the beach and bury it deep!"

"Yes, Sir!" Mike said. "Right away!"

"Good. Now, go! I'll have someone in to take out the stove before the week is over!"

With a final cringe of disgust, Mr. Babbitt slammed the door.

"Well," Mike said, sighing (and then regretting the sigh immediately as he gagged and coughed due to the foul mix of stenches). "I guess that's why we can't have nice things."

Davy's shoulders slumped, to upset to be bothered about the smell. He had ruined things. He had really and truly ruined them.

"I'm sorry," he said, quietly.

"Eh, don't bother about it too much, Tiny. I'm as much to blame as you are for taking this as far as it went."

Davy looked to Mike in surprise. He was taking this rather well for someone who had been so uptight about his roommate not causing him any trouble. Or had the other shoe not dropped yet?

Mike looked back at Davy, noticing his surprise. And then the Texan was surprised with himself, too; he wasn't upset as he thought he'd be. True, it was partly his fault for furthering the food fight, but even so, he had expected that he would've been slightly upset—annoyed, at the very least—at Davy's role in it. But he wasn't. And, suddenly, he realized why; as much as he didn't want to admit it, this… Cookoff of Doom had been _fun_.

Mike gave an amused shake of his head. It was true that he didn't want to take on the role of a guardian for his young English roommate. But maybe he didn't have to completely ignore him, either; things could get interesting around here…

"Come on, Davy," he said, giving him a good-natured punch on the arm. "We'd better get all of this stuff outside, like Mr. Babbitt said. Truce?"

Davy now managed a smile, that mischievous twinkle returning to his eyes.

"Truce," he agreed.

Between the two of them, they were able to get all of the offending food out onto the beach. It turned out that they didn't need to bury it, though; they were quickly swarmed by a flock of seagulls, who spent the rest of the day feasting on the mess. The two roommates then decided to spend the day out in order to distance themselves from Mr. Babbitt, and, for the first time, they ended up spending the day together—a first for them—as they pooled their resources to buy their meals for the day (along with a half-dozen air fresheners for the Pad).

And as the week progressed, Mr. Babbitt was true to his word regarding the replacement of the stove and oven with a hot plate and toaster oven, but the duo didn't mind so much. That fateful food fight had broken the ice just a little bit; Davy still came and went as he pleased as he enjoyed his independence, and Mike stayed cleared of getting involved with whatever it was he was up to, but they no longer avoided or ignored each other. Music was one of the things they talked a lot about, and they both idly mused on the idea of starting an act when they had a bit more time to spare.

But this casual acquaintanceship seemed to be the limit of their friendship; they were both fine with that, seeing no need to be overly concerned about each other…

…For the time being, anyway.


	3. How Much to Care

_Author's note: to the anon reviewer who I can't reply to, Micky and Peter will make their entrance soon enough; they'll have a cameo appearance in the next vignette (which will be a continuation of this), and after that one, I'll get into the story of how Mike and Davy actually met them. As for this vignette, it takes place a few months after the second one, in December._

* * *

**Malibu, CA; three years prior:**

Several more weeks of this casual acquaintanceship continued. Plans for making a two-man act were starting to come together. Davy had been reluctant initially to sacrifice his free time, but he soon found making musical plans with Mike to be fun after all. But Davy's winter break would be rapidly arriving, and he had a feeling that would likely be the time when Mike would want to make significant progress with their act since Davy would be able to afford the time to do so.

Unfortunately, that was also the time that Davy had been hoping to spend some quality time with his current girlfriend, Cyndia. Cyndia and several of her friends had made plans for a skiing trip up in Lake Tahoe, Nevada—and the girls were more than keen on inviting Davy and few other boys along.

Davy hadn't given his answer yet; had this been a few months ago, he would've been packed and ready to go by now, but he was having doubts about going. And he didn't know why.

It was when the last day of the semester ended that Cyndia reminded him about it as they headed away from school.

"You haven't told me about Lake Tahoe, Davy…" she said, lugging her suitcase from her dormitory. "We're leaving the day after tomorrow; I need to tell the lodge how many people there'll be. Don't you want to go?"

"Sure, I want to go!" Davy said. "It's just that…"

He trailed off. Was he… was he actually feeling _guilty_ about being ready to ditch Mike over winter break just like that?

"Just… what?" Cyndia prompted.

"Well, I need to make sure I can. Look, I'll let you know tonight—or first thing tomorrow morning at the latest, okay?"

Cyndia eyebrows arched.

"Okay," she said. "I'll be waiting. But just so you know, if I don't hear from you, I'm going to assume you're not going. And if you're not going, I'm going single. And if there's someone up there who sees me like that, well… I may not be your girl anymore. Keep that in mind."

"…I certainly will," Davy said, just managing not to stammer. "I will find it very difficult to forget that."

Satisfied, Cyndia walked off, and Davy headed off in an aimless direction, in a slight daze. He had to hope Mike would be understanding about Cyndia's ultimatum and would see why Davy simply _had_ to go to Lake Tahoe.

A splash of water on his nose brought Davy around; it was starting to rain. The weatherman had predicted a cold, wet, and unpleasant evening and night; the rain just decided to start a little early.

Davy ran home to the beachhouse just as the rain started pouring down. Sighing with relief, he sat down, waiting for Mike to come back. Mike would, hopefully, return from his waiter job with some food from the restaurant as he usually did—with their stove and range gone, good cooking was hard to come by. Davy had to resort to the using a hot plate to heat up a packet of instant ramen to hold back his hunger until Mike returned—which wouldn't be until 9:00.

That left him with nearly six hours to figure out how to explain to him about the Cyndia dilemma…

…Or so he thought. For back at the restaurant, Mike was finding that his own plans for the evening were being turned upside-down.

The day had been busy, and six hours had gone by in the blink of an eye. It was nearing the time for Mike to leave, and he had gotten their meal fixings all set up to go, his pocketful of tips larger than usual due to the rush. His boss was on the phone, and so the boy decided that this was the best time to leave—he wasn't looking too forward to driving in the miserable rain, so the earlier he could leave, the better.

"Hold it, Nesmith," his boss said.

Mike winced. He knew that couldn't be good.

"We've got a large dinner party coming in here tonight; I need every available man working overtime—you're staying until 1:00."

"_Overtime_?" Mike exclaimed. "Are you serious? Who eats dinner until one in the morning, anyway?"

"We're a twenty-four hour restaurant; we get people at all hours. Would you like to switch to graveyard shift and see?"

"Ah, no thanks; I'll work overtime," Mike said, shaking his head. He'd just have to hope that the next few hours would go just as quickly as the last several hours had.

He got back to work as a flock of giggling girls came in from the rain. His boss indicated the group to him, silently saying that he would be waiting on them next, and to prepare for the large party.

Mike silently got a tray full of water glasses and a stack of menus and started distributing them to the girls, barely paying attention to what they were saying—until he heard his roommate's name mentioned.

"Cyndia, did your English boyfriend say if he was coming with us to Lake Tahoe? …Oh, what's his name again?"

"You mean David?" the girl name Cyndia responded. "He still hasn't given me an answer. I don't know why he wouldn't want to go with us; what's keeping him here?"

"Maybe he can't ski…" a third girl suggested.

"Well, I expect he'll call up tonight and say that he is coming soon enough," Cyndia said, shrugging it off.

"What makes you so sure?"

"I told him that there was every chance in the world that I might leave as his girl and come back as someone else's."

Mike's knuckles whitened as he gripped one of the water glasses; he very nearly moved to "accidentally" knock the glass over so that the water would spill on her, but just barely refrained from doing so.

He walked away as the girls started giggling again (one of them even giving Cyndia a high-five), furious. What was Davy doing, going out with a girl like that? …And why did Mike even care?

The Texan boy let out a sigh. It seemed that the more he tried to distance himself from his English roommate, the more concerned about him he got. And what was this about a skiing trip to Lake Tahoe? Davy had certainly mentioned nothing about that—not that Mike should've expected him to, anyway. Mike's knee-jerk reaction would've been to tell Davy not to go, especially since Cyndia was clearly trying to blackmail him into doing so, but seeing as though Mike was trying not to get involved, that pretty much went out the window. And yet the thought didn't leave Mike's mind.

Clearly, he was fighting a losing battle here, and he wasn't sure for how much longer he'd be able to hold out.

He returned to the table and now began to take orders. Though his voice was calm and his smile on his face, his eyes betrayed his anger; Cyndia seemed to sense it, and that it was somehow directed towards her for reasons she didn't understand, but she remained subdued for the remainder of her stay all the same.

* * *

Meanwhile, back at the beachhouse, Davy began to get more than a little concerned when 9:00 came and went with no sign of Mike. Perhaps the older boy was a little delayed from the rain—Davy held onto that thought for the next few hours. But when midnight came and went, as well, it was impossible for the English boy not to think of how many possible fates had befallen his roommate—and none of them were pretty.

In addition to that, there was the fact that Davy was worried for Mike in the first place. Davy was supposed to be a free spirit—tied down by nothing, and that included wool-hat-wearing Texans.

And, yet, here he was, wondering and worrying.

Davy spent the next several minutes trying to look up news reports on the TV—holding his breath in case a breaking story came in about an accident involving a red Pontiac or a mugging victim in a wool hat. But there were no such stories—not that the revelation soothed the younger boy at all; just because they weren't on the news didn't mean that they were impossible…

The weatherman announced that the rain was bringing down the temperature to an unusually cold 40 degrees—Fahrenheit, which meant very little to Davy, who was trying to convert it in his head to Celsius. He soon abandoned this; he was far too worried to think about math. He grabbed his jacket and began to search for the umbrella; he quickly stopped upon realizing that Mike must've taken it with him. He'd have to go on without it.

Wincing as he headed off into the cold rain, he closed the front door behind him, shivering as he ran, getting more and more soaked with each step. He didn't have to know the Fahrenheit scale to know that he wasn't dressed for _this_ weather.

He pulled his flimsy jacket around him as tightly as he could, silently praying that he would find Mike soon.

* * *

Mike, of course, had no reason to believe that he had given Davy such a scare by being late; he had never stopped to consider that the younger boy would be having the same trouble at staying distant that he was having himself. More than that, he expected that Davy had Cyndia's ultimatum on his mind, which he assumed would've left little room for anything else.

"Little idiot…" he muttered, as he finally was allowed to leave at 1:00. He yawned, forcing himself to stay awake as he drove back home in the rain, blinking in surprise to see the lights in the beachhouse still on.

"Hey, I'm back," he announced, as he walked through the front door—having quickly dashed inside to avoid staying out in the rain any longer than he had to.

There was no reply; the door to Davy's bedroom was open, and he, clearly, wasn't there.

"Davy?" Mike called, heading upstairs. Of course, he wasn't there, either. A bit of detective work revealed that Davy's jacket and shoes weren't around, either. He wasn't here.

Mike removed his hat to run a hand through his hair. What on earth was he doing out so late? True, he usually waltzed in late at times, but he always made it back around midnight at the latest. And, more than that, he clearly hadn't been with Cyndia—which would've been the only reason for his absence.

Mike glanced out the window at the pouring rain as his mind raced. He would not be able to sleep as long as Davy was out there; he was far too worried—a reality he had tried to avoid ever since he had agreed to take the younger boy in as a roommate. Despite the fact that he only had known the English boy a few short months… despite the fact that he had no obligation to the kid whatsoever, Mike had to concede that he just could not stay distant and aloof any longer.

Their food feud months ago had broken the ice. And Mike had since fallen through it while trying to deny it all this time.

"Okay," he sighed, to no one in particular. "I give up. You win. The kid has gone and grown on me. Well, my jacket and shoes are still on, so I may as well go and look for him. But for all the trouble I'm going through, he'd better have a good reason for being out there at this time of night!"

He grabbed the umbrella he had propped against the wall and headed back outside and back into the Pontiac.

It was difficult to see with all of the rain around; before Mike knew what happened, another three hours had gone by. He had driven around in circles, making frequent stops back at the beachhouse to see if Davy had come back, but the house was empty each time he looked.

At this point in the night—now able to technically be called early morning—it was sheer worry and adrenaline keeping Mike awake. Worry eventually gave way to panic as, desperate, Mike resorted to leaving the window down and calling out Davy's name.

It was outside one of the streets that Mike finally heard a familiar voice calling his name in response.

"_Mike_?"

The Texan managed to pull over to one of the parallel parking spaces before freezing long enough to collect his senses. He quickly put the car into park and exited the car, opening the umbrella to shield himself from the rain.

Davy, pale and shivering, was illuminated in the Pontiac's headlights as he stared back at Mike. The expression on Davy's face was mostly unreadable, but there was no mistaking the fury on Mike's, even in the dim light.

"Where have you been?" the older boy demanded.

Davy's face fell, and he looked down at the ground. He had been so relieved to see Mike safe and well, and he only just realized that the Texan had been annoyed by his efforts to try to find him. Of course, he should've expected it; Mike had told him from day one that he didn't want to get involved in any of Davy's problems, hadn't he? Davy didn't even feel as though he had the right to inquire as to Mike's whereabouts.

"Well, I'm waiting!" Mike said, still glaring at the younger boy. "Where were you all night?"

"I was… with my girlfriend, Cyndia," Davy lied, still shivering. "There was a late night triple-feature downtown—_Dracula Leaves_, _Dracula Comes Back_, and _Dracula Goes Away Again_. And we wanted to see them all, so we just… watched them."

Mike's frown furrowed even deeper, knowing that he had just caught the younger boy in a lie.

"Cyndia?" Mike repeated.

"Yeah," Davy said, managing a smile. "I just dropped her off home. She's… she's invited me to Lake Tahoe for the winter break with a whole bunch of her friends, you know. I'll be going with her, so I'll stay out of your hair until January." His voice grew softer as he said that, and Mike thought he heard his voice quiver.

Mike exhaled, glancing at the buildings next to them as he tried to come up with a way to confront Davy with his lie. Why would Davy have lied about where he had been in the first place? He couldn't have even known that Cyndia had been at the restaurant, thereby proving that he had lied…

_Restaurant_… Mike mentally repeated.

It was then that something clicked in the Texan's mind. His eyes widened; in his annoyance and bitterness at being forced to work overtime, he had neglected to give a second thought to the fact that Davy couldn't have known about it.

All the righteous anger faded from Mike as he realized that Davy had spent half the night out in the cold, pouring rain just to look for _him_; the truth of the matter was that Davy had been just as concerned about Mike as Mike had been for him. And now, thinking that Mike still wanted to remain aloof, Davy had withdrawn upon finding him, resigned to spending more than two weeks with that little heartbreaker who would surely walk all over him now that she realized she had the power to do so.

Wordlessly, Mike pulled the younger boy into a brotherly hug, disregarding how soaked he was; it was something Davy had clearly not expected.

"…Mike…?"

"I'm sorry, Tiny. I didn't realize you'd get so worried, but I guess I probably should've after seeing how worried I got."

"W-Worried?" Davy responded, his voice nearly squeaking as it rose a couple octaves in surprise. "Me, worried? I told you, I was with Cyndia—"

"Cyndia was at the restaurant where I was stuck working overtime," Mike informed him, watching as his eyes widened. "You certainly weren't there, and she was bragging to all of her friends about how she was threatening you into going to Lake Tahoe."

"…Oh," Davy said, not sure of what else to say.

"Personally, I think you could do better," Mike went on. "You _deserve_ better than her. But if you still want to go with her, I won't stop you. …Well, actually… yes, I will."

But Mike's words had sealed Davy's decision.

"I don't want to go," he said, now returning the hug. "Not with her, anyway…"

Mike managed a smile.

"Tell you what," he said. "We've talked for a while about starting up this two-man music act; I say we get it off the ground over your break—maybe we can even pick up a little extra cash along the way. But first… we should try to pick up at least 10 or 15 of those alleged 40 winks; it's been a long night."

Davy grinned and nodded, the cold no longer bothering him. And from that moment on, the two no longer had their merely casual acquaintanceship; they had lost the battle to stay aloof—but they had won something far more precious in return: true-blue friendship. And though the coming days brought a Dear John postcard from Cyndia and more grief from Mike's boss, the two found it far easier to shake off those troubles—and plenty of others, too.


	4. Promises Not Broken

_Notes: This is one of the stories in the collection that spans more than one point in time; the first half takes place the immediate day after the previous vignette, and the second half takes place during the events of the episode "Hitting the High Seas," basically to serve as Mike's side of the story and fill in the gaps between all of the episode's timeskips. As such, Micky and Peter finally show up in the second half, and while I only vaguely allude here as to how they met Mike and Davy, I intend for the next story in the collection to show that fateful encounter. Also, if part of Mike and Davy's conversation in the first half seems similar to part of their conversation in one of the chapters of my other ongoing fic, "Red Sky, Take Warning," it is completely intentional. Also, yes—Mike's costume that is mentioned near the end of the first half is indeed the same one from _33 1/3_—as weird as that show was, that costume was just plain awesome_.

* * *

**Malibu, CA; a few years prior:**

It was the immediate day after the overtime incident that Mike found something else to worry about in regards to his younger roommate, just when he thought that there had been nothing left to worry about.

Initially, he hadn't given it much thought; they had both turned in well past four in the morning—even later for Davy, who had taken the time to change out of his wet clothes. Mike had awakened at nearly ten in the morning, still bleary-eyed from the lack of sleep.

"Man, I hope I never have to do that again…" he grumbled, heading downstairs as he yawned.

Davy's door was still closed, and Mike decided to let him sleep in some more as he toasted some bread for the both of them.

"Brunch is ready when you are," he announced, knocking on his roommate's door. "You know, you don't want to spend the whole morning sleeping; you'll end up wide awake at night again."

"…Nothungry…" the weak reply came from within the room, all mashing it together in one word.

Mike stared at the door once again sensing that something was very wrong.

"Davy?" he asked, opening the door.

The English boy was curled up under his bedcovers, trembling as his pale and clammy face winced in discomfort.

"You look terrible!" the Texan exclaimed. He placed a hand on Davy's forehead and exhaled. "And you're burning up. …How long were you out in the rain for with just that little jacket of yours last night?"

Davy mumbled something unintelligible, but Mike managed to discern the word "midnight" among it and quickly deduced that he must've been out there for more than four hours.

"Well, being out in the rain that long would do a number on anyone," Mike sighed. He winced again as he felt his roommate's forehead; he didn't have a thermometer, but he could tell that the fever was quite high—and that Davy was suffering from it very much. "I'll tell you what; I'll make you my Aunt Kate's special concoction—it's a family secret. Knocks any cold or fever right out of you within 24 hours _and_ keeps bugs from getting to you; she swears by it."

Davy just let out a weak groan; he was certainly not in the mood to try any secret family cures.

"I think it's too late for that," he said, weakly. "Just leave me here to roast."

Mike shook his head, heading to the kitchen and soaking a dish towel in cold water, which he brought back to Davy and started using to gently wipe the sweat from his face. Davy sighed as he felt some relief from the cold water.

"I'm sorry, Davy," Mike said, softly. "It's my fault you were out there last night in the first place. I didn't think to figure out a way to let you know that I'd be late…"

"Didn't exactly give you a reason to think I'd care…" Davy said, shutting his eyes as Mike continued to apply the cold cloth to his face.

"Yeah, well, that's my fault, too; I had told you that I wanted to be left alone, and I tried to convince myself that you wanted to be left alone to make whatever decisions you wanted to make," Mike said. "Even though I knew better than to think that was the best idea—both for me and for you. Because the truth of the matter is that you're just plain too young to be on your own, and, as for me… well…"

He trailed off, not sure how to put his thoughts into words. After eighteen years of being a loner, it was nice to have someone he could call a friend.

Davy looked up at him now.

"You were lonely?" he asked.

Mike managed a wan smile.

"Well, maybe just a little," he confessed. "And besides that, you really grow on a person, you know that? You've got spunk, you've got drive, and you're more than willing to take life by the horns at an age where kids over here aren't even driving yet, whether or not you're actually ready…"

Davy blinked.

"You don't think I'm ready?"

"Well…" Mike said, pausing to consider his answer. "You might be. Of course, you wouldn't be able to legally—so that's a moot point, anyway."

"Well, if I have to be stuck with someone, I'm glad it's with you."

"I'll take that as a compliment," the Texan said. "Besides, I'm sure you'll agree that the only thing worse than being ill is being ill all alone."

"…You sound like you're speaking from experience."

"Well… actually, no; I never get sick. Aunt Kate's brew also serves as an immune booster if you take it before the bugs attack. But I can sure imagine what it must be like—trying to fend for yourself for days and days when your entire body is in utter agony is no cakewalk."

"Agony is the right word," Davy said, wincing. "…Whatever it is I have."

"What you've got is probably some little bug you were fighting off fine until you stressed yourself out last night." Mike sighed. "You know… I never thought I'd ever have someone spend four hours in the dead of night—with a rainstorm on top of everything—just to look for me. I know it sounds weird, but… thank you. I mean, especially since you've been telling me that you don't want any worries to weigh you down…" He smiled again. "And I guess you're probably thinking the same about me, aren't you? Well, I think I'll officially retract that statement I made when I agreed to take you in—that one about pretending that I'm not really here and never to bring any of your troubles to me. You can bother me all you like."

Davy gave a weak chuckle.

Mike now got to his feet.

"Well, I'll go see to Aunt Kate's secret remedy; you sure you don't want to eat something?"

"Not right now…"

"Well, I'll leave that toast on the bedside table for you just in case," Mike said, headed back to the main room of the pad. He was just getting the ingredients together and throwing them into a pot of water on the hot plate when the phone rang.

"Hello?" he asked as he answered it.

He involuntarily cringed when he heard the voice of his boss over the line.

"Nesmith, I need you over here _tout de suite_!" he said. "That dinner party from yesterday liked the food and the service so much, they're coming back for lunch and for another late dinner later tonight."

"Y-You mean come over there _now_ and stay until 1 in the morning again?" Mike blurted out.

"That's what I said, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but… I can't…!" Mike exclaimed. "Not today!"

You mean to tell me you've got something more important to do than your job?"

"Well… yes; as a matter of fact, I do!"

"Well, I've got news for you, Nesmith; we're shorthanded. We've got five people out sick; apparently, there's some bug going around."

"I happen to be aware of that all too well," Mike said, his voice dripping with venom.

"Then I expect to see you here on the double; nothing is more important than pleasing this party!"

"Well, I'm going to have to disagree; I think the situation I've got here is more important than that!"

"Nesmith, I'm not going to argue!" his boss roared. "Either you get in here on the double, or you're out of work! Do you understand me?"

Mike was silent for a moment, but then answered, "Yes, I understand."

"Good. Then I'll see you here lickety-split!"

"No, you won't," Mike retorted. "I quit, you tyrant!"

He slammed the receiver down into the cradle before his ex-boss could respond, and he exhaled. Well, now he'd gone and done it. There was no telling when or if he'd ever find another job, but what else could he have done—wait on a group of loud customers as they stuffed their faces while Davy suffered? No—not now, not ever; even if he and Davy had been still semi-aloof with each other, Mike still wouldn't have been able to just leave him when he was ill.

Mike sighed and finished up preparing the remedy when Davy peeked out of his room, holding onto the door frame to support himself.

"Mike…?"

"What are you doing out here?" the Texan chided. "Get back to bed!"

"I just wanted to tell you that I'm… I'm feeling much better. You can call your boss up and apologize—maybe he'll give you your job back. I'll be fine by myself."

"…You heard me, huh?"

"It was hard not to," Davy confessed. "Go on, then; I know you need the money. It's only for a little bit, anyway."

"Same thing would've just happened tomorrow and the next day and the next," Mike said. "Look, I don't regret this one bit. I'd been looking for a reason to quit so I could work more on my music; well, now I've got one. So thanks again for that."

"…You're welcome?" Davy asked, confused. "But that's a risk, isn't it? I mean, what if…?"

"I have a feeling my musical career—make that _our_ musical career—is going to get better once we get this act off the ground. But that won't happen if you don't get better." He snapped his fingers and pointed back inside the bedroom. "In you go."

Davy fumbled his way back to bed as Mike followed with a bowlful of the secret remedy.

"Mike," the younger boy said, quietly. "If it ever comes to the point where you're ever feeling this bad yourself… I promise I'll be there for you, too."

"I'll hold you to that, Tiny. And here's this," the Texan said, handing it to him along with a soupspoon. "Down the hatch—all of it."

Davy cast the concoction a suspicious look.

"What did you say was in this stuff?"

"I didn't say. You really want to know?"

"…No; I think I'd be better off not knowing."

"See? You _are_ smart…"

Davy managed a smile and started to drink the remedy; it actually wasn't half-bad. And, true to Mike's word, when the next morning dawned, Davy woke up with a clear head and no chills.

That was also the day that their two-man act, Lone Star and Union Jack, was officially formed. The remainder of Davy's winter break was spent bouncing ideas and songs off one another and practicing. And as December drew to an end, their combination Christmas-and-birthday presents to each other ended up being their costumes for the act; Mike had managed to find a small costume that perfectly mirrored that of the Queen's Guards for Davy, who, in return, had given Mike a blue-and-white cowboy costume studded with shiny stars, which the amused Texan gladly accepted, regardless of how gaudy-looking it was (Davy was amused and impressed by the replica Guardsman's uniform, as well, though he refused point-blank to wear the hat). Their first true gig was at a New Year's Eve party at, ironically enough, the very same restaurant that Mike had just quit working for; Mike's former immediate boss had not wanted to hire them out of spite, but they went over his head to the owner of the restaurant, who let them play. As to whether or not that first gig had been a smashing success, they never truly found out; the majority of their audience had been smashed themselves—on champagne. But they received enough applause for them to treat it as though it had been a success. And more gigs, some failures and some successes, followed, as did numerous misadventures—one of those misadventures resulting in their expanding their two-man act into a quartet as they ended up taking in two more roommates into their little beachhouse.

Through it all, Davy never did forget the promise he had made, but it turned out that he never got a chance to keep it. Mike just never seemed to get sick; he had been right about the secret remedy doubling as a preemptive strike against any bug. Nevertheless, Davy kept the promise he had made buried in the back of his mind, but still very much in his consciousness, just in case…

* * *

**Somewhere on the High Seas; a few years later:**

_Sometimes, irony is just unbelievable_, Mike thought, cringing as his stomach gave yet another unpleasant lurch. _All those years taking Aunt Kate's concoction, never getting sick… and I can't even stay on my feet on some dumb old __boat__?_

He had felt an unpleasant feeling in his gut when he had first stepped aboard the schooner, but had dismissed it as pre-journey nervousness. After all, he hadn't gotten sick in years! Truth to be told, he had been thinking that he was invincible as far as illness went, but fate just _had_ to deal him a slap of reality; stricken with seasickness, Mike found himself bedridden and nauseous.

_Okay, I get it. I surrender. I'll never tempt fate again_…

Mike's thoughts trailed off as he suddenly became aware of someone's presence beside him; he had his eyes closed, but he was pretty sure he knew who it was as he felt a hand on his forehead.

"Hey, Tiny…" the Texan said, weakly.

"Hey."

Mike opened his eyes, looking up at the now eighteen-year-old English boy, idly thinking about irony again as he realized that Davy was now the same age Mike had been when he had first met him as that scrappy, jet-lagged little traveler in the bus depot. Davy had certainly come a long way since then, and after everything that he and Mike had been through during that time, their friendship had only solidified and grown stronger (as had their friendship with Micky and Peter, the two roommates/bandmates they had picked up along the way).

Mike's thoughts were jolted once again as the schooner rocked, and he was forced to shut his eyes again.

"So what brings you to the sickbay?" he managed to ask, wryly.

"Do you really have to ask me that?" Davy asked. "I made a promise to you years ago, Mike. I intend to keep it."

"I had a feeling…"

Davy now stood up, and Mike soon heard the sound of something pouring.

"What's that you've got there?" the Texan inquired, as an unfamiliar aroma reached his nostrils.

"Ginger tea," Davy replied. "I made it myself."

"That captain let you run around in the galley?" Mike asked, referring to the man who had hired the four of them to work on his ship.

"Oh, yeah. He made me his cabin boy, so I get access to the galley to get him his meals. I don't think Micky and Peter were too pleased by that though; they're stuck swabbing the decks."

"How did you land that cushy job?"

"He's a superstitious old seafarer. When he heard my name…"

"Don't tell me… you threatened to send him to your locker?"

"Nah; Micky told him I don't inherit the locker until I'm 25."

"He would," Mike mused, shaking his head at the Californian's antics. "And that was enough for the old seadog?"

"You aren't kidding. Mike, he's absolutely mad!"

"Yeah, well, I know you well enough to know that you wouldn't send anyone to your locker, if you had one…"

"It's not that; Mike, I just came from his cabin to try to give him his lunch. He was conspiring with his _parrot_—something about a fortune in gold! If I didn't know any better, I'd have thought we got ourselves stuck in some swashbuckling story!"

Mike exhaled.

"Hold onto your hat, Tiny; I think we just might be." He winced as his insides did a somersault again. "And, unfortunately, it's looking as though I'm going to have to sit this one out."

"Well, that's why I brought this ginger tea for you," Davy said. "Your aunt's recipe helped me; maybe this brew of my grandfather's will help you."

"Oh, your gramps came up with this? When did he get seasick?"

"You mean I never told you? Guess it never came up in the conversation… Well, my grandfather was a spy for British Intelligence during the Second World War."

"…Say what now?"

"I didn't know myself until recently; he spent a lot of time traveling around in submarines, and his stomach didn't take to it so well. He said that ginger tea really helped him with that, so…"

"I'll try anything," Mike said, sitting up slightly.

Davy handed him the teacup, and, slowly, the Texan sipped at the tea, hoping it would stay down; thankfully, it did.

"…Davy, look," he said, as he drank. "I know you want to stay here and keep that promise you made, and I know I said that I'd hold you to it, but if there is something up with that captain, you need to let Micky and Peter know as soon as possible."

"I know. I'll tell them."

"So, go do it."

Davy nodded, getting to his feet again.

"I will be coming back," he promised, as he left the room. "You just relax until then."

* * *

Davy was, once again, true to his word, and when he returned to see how Mike was doing, he had brought news that he, Micky, and Peter were planning to sneak into the captain's quarters to find out more about the plan. Later that night, as Mike was finally managing to fall asleep, Davy left again to implement the plan.

The Texan wasn't sure how long he had managed to sleep for; he awakened to whispers.

"I'm telling you, we must've imagined the whole thing!"

"But Davy and I were there, too, and we weren't imagining it; how do you explain that?"

"Mass hallucinations?"

"Come off it, Micky," Mike heard Davy whisper back. "We were wide awake, and you know it. Besides that, Mike was willing to believe that we were in another one of our escapades when I told him about it."

"Funny, how we always seem to get into those escapades, no matter what we do…"

"You ain't kidding, Pete," Micky whispered back. "Heck, the four of us _met_ because of one of those escapades…"

"And while I'm grateful for that chance meeting," Mike now drawled. "I'd really appreciate it if y'all kept it down while you reminisce."

He opened his eyes, seeing three guilty-looking faces staring back at him.

"Oh, man; sorry, Mike!" Micky said, apologetically.

"We didn't realize we were so loud…" Peter said, shrugging.

"You feeling any better?" Davy asked.

"Actually, I think I am," Mike said. "That ginger tea really worked."

"Then you should probably have another cup," Davy said, getting him a refill.

"Thanks," Mike said, accepting it. "So what was this riveting conversation you were having before I woke up?"

The other three launched into an explanation of what had transpired in the captain's cabin—how Micky had impersonated the captain's parrot, getting him to reveal his plan to lay siege to the _Queen Anne_ the next day and steal the gold aboard it.

"He's a pirate!" Davy finished.

"And I'm saying that he had to be kidding," Micky said.

"Let's hope so," Peter sighed.

Mike thought for a moment.

"Well, regardless of whether he was being serious or not, you guys might be in for a lot of trouble if he does a bed check or something, and you're not there," the Texan said. "You don't want to make him suspicious, after all."

"Yeah, good call…" Micky said, as he and Peter got to their feet. "You coming, Davy?"

Davy looked back at Mike for a moment, and then looked back to the others.

"I think someone should look after Mike," he said. "And since I'm the captain's favorite at the moment, he wouldn't say a thing about it if he saw me missing."

Micky and Peter exchanged glances, but nodded; they turned to go after wishing the others good night.

"Hey, Guys?" Mike said, prompting them to pause and turn back. "Just in case this nutcase of a captian is serious… be careful—all of you."

"Hey, aren't we always?" Micky grinned. He turned to exit the cabin—and promptly smacked his face on the door frame as the schooner suddenly tilted forward. "Don't answer that," Micky added, in a now-nasal voice.

The other three cringed in sympathy.

Peter placed a hand on Micky's shoulder as they now departed the cabin (Micky gingerly rubbing his nose). Mike shook his head, unable to put his thoughts into words as he finished his tea and went back to sleep.

* * *

The tea had worked its magic; Mike slept well—in fact, he had been awakened by Davy sometime midmorning. The Texan had to do a double-take as he registered that Davy was now wearing some sort of clichéd pirate's outfit.

"…He was serious?" he asked.

"Right in one," Davy said. "We've got very little time to spare, but I felt as though I had to tell you what was going on; Peter is up on deck, inciting the crew. Micky's going to lead them into mutiny against the captain."

"_Mutiny_?" Mike repeated. "That's it; I've sat this thing out long enough…"

He made an attempt to get up, but Davy placed his hands on his shoulders.

"You can't afford it—what if you get sick again?"

"I can't have the three of you running around mutinying up there without me!"

"And we can't have something happening to you because you weren't feeling up to par," Davy said; he was calm on the outside, but Mike saw the worry in his eyes.

The Texan sighed; he was feeling queasy enough to heed Davy's advice.

"You've got one hour," he said, pouring himself another dose of ginger tea. "If I don't hear from at least one of the three of you, I'm going up there."

"Fair enough. This should all be over soon, anyway," the English boy promised. "See you in a bit."

Davy soon left after that. And Mike waited… and waited… and waited. There was definitely a commotion going on up on deck. And though the hour hadn't fully passed, Mike abandoned waiting for the rest of it, shakily getting to his feet.

It was then that Davy, Micky, and Peter arrived—a little exhausted, but with triumphant smiles on their faces as Davy held up the captain's sword in his hands.

"The ship is ours," he announced, and he turned the sword around so that the hilt faced Mike. "_Captain_ Nesmith."

Mike accepted the sword and looked back at the others, who saluted him.

"I've said it before, but you three are something else," he said, returning the salute. "And I'm grateful for it."

This comment prompted a group hug, which the Texan accepted and returned. Yes, Mike was grateful—both for Davy, whom he had known the longest, and also for Micky and Peter whom he had come to care for, as well.

They were worth more than a captaincy and a fortune in gold anyday.


	5. And Then There Were Four, Part I

_Notes: Here it is, the first half of the story of how Mike and Davy met Micky and Peter! This one ended up being much, much longer than I had first anticipated it, so I knew that if I was to have any chance of being able to complete this coming Sunday's update of Red Sky, my only option would be to split this story in two. So, apologies for the cliffhanger, and I promise all will be resolved next week!_

* * *

**Malibu, CA; one year prior:**

Mike and Davy's act had done well in the months since its creation—a year and a half later, and it was still going strong. Mike was the creative force of the duo; he wrote the songs and would back Davy up on guitar as the English boy sang. And although Davy was fine with this arrangement, he did wonder why Mike opted out of singing himself; he had offered to let him sing many times, but Mike always had insisted that Davy should be the one to do the singing.

The only downside to their venture was that the income they gained from it was neither steady nor predictable. Davy soon found himself spending almost all of his lodging reimbursement to cover Mike's share of the rent during the slower times when he wasn't able to make his half, which meant little to no money left to take out the girls on dates—for him, truly the ultimate sacrifice.

With Davy's summer break on the horizon, things were going to get even more difficult; the previous summer had told them one thing—there was no lodging reimbursement during the summer. And while Davy's grandfather had expected that, he had also expected Davy to get a steady summer job to pay for wherever he was being put up for the summer's duration—something he had spelled out in the letter Davy had received from him at the start of his previous summer break.

"Davy…" Mike had said, happening to have read the letter over his shoulder. "Your gramps _does_ know you live in a beachhouse with a roommate, right?"

Davy's hesitance in replying had given Mike the answer—as had the fact that the envelope had been addressed to the school, who had to forward it themselves to Davy.

"You don't understand!" Davy had replied. "I can't let him know that I'm rooming with a musician while trying to be a musician myself! That… isn't what he expects of me."

"Why should he have to expect anything from you?" Mike had wondered. "You're just a kid!"

"That's just the way he is; he wants me to make something of myself."

"Okay. And what do _you_ want to do?"

"I want to keep on doing this act with you. I want to be a musician."

"Well, Tiny, you're in luck—that's what you are, and that's making something of yourself. And if that's what you want to be, that what you're going to be. You've got that spark and fire alive in you, so don't you ever let anyone tell you that you can't be a musician—or else you'll have to answer to me."

And that had inspired Davy to keep on going, and, somehow, the two of them had made it through that summer literally singing for their supper—and breakfast, lunch, and rent. Once classes started again and the rent pressure was off for a bit, things got easier. But with summer here once again, the two of them were ready to do it all over again.

As per normal on these summer mornings, Mike had taken a walk to the nearest newsstand and returned with the morning paper, searching for any sort of audition or opening for a musical act. On one such morning, Davy was busy preparing their morning toast as Mike looked through the paper; Davy wasn't really paying attention—at least, not until Mike suddenly let out a quiet gasp.

"Oh, no…" he murmured.

"What's wrong?" Davy inquired.

"Oh, no," the Texan repeated, seemingly not hearing him.

"What's the matter?"

"Oh, _no_."

"For pity's sake, Man—what is it?" Davy asked, loudly enough to snap Mike out of it.

"This," Mike said, handing him one of the pages of the paper.

Davy blinked, not quite sure what it was he was supposed to be looking at.

"'Priceless ancient jade monkey sculpture stolen from museum—'" Davy began to read, but Mike cut him off.

"Not that! The column next to it!"

"'State Legislature voted "Yes" yesterday to property tax increase.' Is that all?"

"Are you kidding, Man? Do you realize what this means?"

"I'm trying to work that out now. This Legislature thing—that's like Parliament, right?"

"Look, the only thing that matters is the second half of that sentence: property tax increase."

"Well, I can figure that out," Davy said. "I can also figure out that we've got nothing to worry about; we don't own any property!"

"We don't," Mike agreed. "But Mr. Babbitt does—and when he has to deal with that property tax increase, he's going to pass the buck on to us!"

Davy now let out a nervous little "Ooh!" as it finally sunk in.

"You said it," the Texan agreed. "And if you may recall, we only just managed to make our rent payments last summer. We're going to have to do better than last year if we want to meet the new rent rate _and_ keep our stomachs filled."

"But our line of business is never a sure thing!" Davy said. "You don't know where the next gig is coming from—or when!"

Mike gave a nod.

"That leaves us with only two other options," he said. "One: we try to find another place—one that's cheaper than here. And seeing as though this was the cheapest place around when I found it, that isn't going to work."

"So… what's option two?"

"We take in another roommate—simple as that."

"I don't think that's such a great idea, either," Davy said, frowning. "I mean, it took us nearly two months until we started talking to each other, and then another three months until we realized that we even cared about each other. Having another roommate is going to complicate things a _lot_. We've only got two bedrooms, anyway. And besides that, how do we know that we'd get along with this other roommate? I just don't think this will work."

"In defense of my idea, the 'I just don't think this will work' argument was going through my head the day I decided to take you in. I say we give it a try—at least a trial period. We've got the strength in numbers to kick the guy out if we decide we can't live with him."

"This is true…" Davy said. "But how do we go about it?"

"Well, I was going to recommend fliers," Mike said. "That's what I had in mind two years ago—of course, you ended up sparing me the humiliation of sticking fliers all over town. Anyway, it's not as though we have to do this overnight; that new property tax doesn't kick in until the next fiscal quarter. But that is still a limited window of time that we have to work with, so we can't put it off forever, either."

Davy nodded, but then blinked as something on the other side of the newspaper page caught his eye.

"Hey!" he exclaimed. "I think we might have a temporary solution, at any rate! Look at this!"

"Look at what? I never got past that other page…"

"'Amateur Talent Competition tonight at the Great Oak Theatre, 8:00; auditions to be held at 4:00; those selected in the auditions will be competing for cash prize of $250!'" Davy read. "…How much is that in English money?"

"Who cares? It's a month's worth of rent, and that's all that matters!" Mike replied. "We need to win that thing! We've got to come up with a good set…"

"Each act is allowed up to ten minutes; going over that counts against you," Davy said, as he read on. "The way I figure it, we can do two songs, plus give them a little embellishing if we have to; that ought to do it."

"Hmm…" Mike mused aloud. "I say we give them a taste of a feel-good number, and then one to get 'em bawling. Shows our vast repertoire, don't you think?"

"What about that song you were working on the other day?" Davy asked. "That was really nice and upbeat—what did you say that one was called?"

"Papa Gene's Blues."

"…There's nothing blue about that; I was going to choose it for our feel-good number! Why did you call it that?"

"Because I can, Tiny. Because I can…" Mike said, with a smirk. "Anyway, after that, I say we give 'em a taste of 'Nine Times Blue' and see if we can get everyone to turn to their handkerchiefs."

"See, now that song actually _is_ sad; I'll buy that title," Davy said, and then he hesitated. "Hey, why don't you sing lead on one of them?"

Mike turned to Davy in surprise.

"…No, I'd better not."

"Okay, that's it," Davy said, determined to get an answer this time. "Mike, why do you insist on not singing? It's not that I mind doing all the singing, but… Well, they're _your_ songs! You should be singing at least _some_ of them!"

"Look, I write the songs and play guitar, you sing and play tambourine and maracas, and the people love it. We've got a saying over here in the States: 'If it ain't broke, don't fix it.'"

"But we could try something different for once!" Davy said. "I've heard you sing—you've got a wonderful voice!"

"Well, that may be, but… it might not be enough."

Davy blinked in surprise.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well… before you came along, I wasn't doing too well with my music—that's why I had that waiter job in the first place. But then you came along, and we started going places. The songs were the same, but the person singing them was different. And now I think I've figured out why. The fact of the matter is, Tiny, that you're a kid from the other side of the world—that automatically intrigues people, including the audience. Think about it—an intriguing English kid who goes to a high-class private school? Davy, you're what's _in_ right now. Add to that the fact that you've got the looks, too; it's a cinch that the audience would prefer to look at your pretty face rather than this ugly thing I've got here," Mike added, absently feeling his sideburns. "It's a no-brainer, so give 'em what they want."

Davy's shoulders slumped; he had no idea that Mike looked down on himself so harshly. In reality, Davy had wished he could be able to churn out a song so easily as Mike did; Mike had so much talent, and Davy had been looking up to him all this time. And now, that pedestal he had put Mike on was starting to break—because Mike was taking a sledgehammer to it himself.

The younger boy walked over to his companion, placing his hand on his shoulder.

"But what about all that stuff you were telling me last year—that no one could tell me I couldn't be a musician if that's what I wanted to be?"

"Oh, that still applies. I _know_ I'm a musician; I'm up there on stage with you, aren't I? And I know that if I was still in Texas, I probably could've flown solo just fine. The atmosphere's just a little different here, so we've got make adjustments to that."

"I just don't see why we couldn't give them some of what they want _and_ some of what we want, too."

"Well, with only ten minutes to work with, that's going to have to wait anyway," Mike said. "With a month's rent at stake here, I don't want to pick today for any experiments."

"Fair enough," Davy said, but he hoped that Mike was serious about actually giving singing a chance and that this wasn't just some stalling tactic to avoid discussing the issue any more.

* * *

The duo spent the morning practicing the two songs they had decided upon; once the afternoon rolled around, they headed to the Great Oak Theatre—in costume, which did earn them several double-takes from the parking lot to the door.

"See, now I'm glad I didn't wear the hat," Davy murmured, holding the door open for Mike, who had to lug his guitar in its case.

"I still think you would've looked great in it—taller, too," Mike replied, and he led the way to the stage, where the various acts were registering and being told where to sit.

"Name of your act?" the man with the sign-in sheet asked.

"Lone Star and Union Jack," Davy replied.

"And what do you do?"

"We're musicians," Mike said, wondering why the guitar case he was carrying didn't give him a clue.

"Okay," the man said, getting it all down. "You're entry 18—right after Connecticut Yankee and the California Dreamer. They're sitting over there in those seats; you should take your place next to them, and we'll be calling you up one at a time for the auditions."

"Thanks," Mike said, suppressing an eyeroll as he and Davy headed to their seats next to the act before them.

The two members of the act—a taller blond boy around Mike's age and a younger brunet around Davy's age—observed them as they sat down, glancing at their outlandish costumes. Mike gave them a nod of assent as they looked his way.

"I think we're in for quite a wait" Davy said, looking around at the long line of people still waiting to register. "Everyone and their dog seems to be here…"

"Well, $250 isn't small change; I can't blame them…" Mike said. "We're really going to have to stand out."

He set his guitar case down, accidentally knocking it against a set of gold-painted drums.

"Oh, sorry…"

"Eh, that's okay…" the brunet boy said. "They didn't exactly give us a lot of room to work with."

"Yeah," said the blond, adjusting the guitar strapped to his own shoulders. "I kept my case in the prop room so that no one would trip over it."

"Uh-huh," Mike said.

They lapsed into silence for a while until the brunet spoke again.

"So you guys are in this to win the money, huh?" he asked.

"Aren't we all?" Davy asked.

"Well, we sure are," the blond said. "We ran out of money for the bed and breakfast we've been staying in. We've got to win this; that's our lodging money up there."

"It's a living, though," the brunet said, shrugging it off. "We've just gotta believe we can win this."

Davy and Mike exchanged uncomfortable glances.

"…Was it something I said?" the blond asked.

"That's your lodging money?" Davy asked. "That… just happens to be our rent money, too."

"We've got the crankiest landlord in the history of landlords…" Mike said, realizing that getting their rent money meant these two guys possibly spending a sleepless night on the town. And that brunet kid couldn't be too much older than Davy was—he shouldn't have to go through that…

The blond and the brunet now exchanged uncomfortable glances, as well.

"…Well, this is awkward," the brunet said.

"You said it," Mike said, wryly.

More silence followed. There didn't seem to be an easy way out of this; someone was going to lose.

Nobody said anything, and it was soon time for the auditions. Mike and Davy and their seat-neighbors watched as the various performances took place; some of them were good, and some of them fell flat on their faces.

"Entry 17," the judge called. "Connecticut Yankee and the California Dreamer?"

Mike and Davy's seat-neighbors now got up and onto the stage, the brunet quickly setting up his drums. As he was doing this, he launched into an impression of James Cagney, proceeding to address the drums as "dirty rats," as though trying to intimidate them into submission as the blond melodramatically begged him to "go easy on them."

Davy couldn't help but chuckle, and Mike had to give them credit for working in the time it took to set up the drums into the act itself.

"Well, they're funny," the Texan conceded. "But how are they musically? _That's_ the $250 question here."

He soon got his answer; the duo launched into a rather haunting song about words. Davy and Mike both stared with wide eyes as they realized that they were, in fact, very good.

"Davy, my loyal compatriot… I think we've got our work cut out for us."

The English boy continued to stare, nodding.

The duo finished up to an applause louder than anyone else had been given so far. Even the judge looked impressed.

"Let's just get out of here and try to find something else," Davy said, shaking his head. "Even if it does come down to the two of us, whoever loses ends up in trouble, and at least we've got a little bit of time to come up with the money…"

"No," Mike said. "This is our big test; we need to show them how good we are, too. The money's a matter for us, too, and we can't wait to cross that bridge when we get to it. We can't afford to back out any more than they can."

"Entry 18," the judge now called. "Lone Star and Union Jack?"

Mike and Davy stood up now heading to the stage; they passed the Connecticut Yankee and the California Dreamer coming down the stage steps; the blond gave them a nod and a smile, as though silently telling them to break a leg.

Mike sat down on the chair on the stage, flicking his hat brim out of his eyes as he gave a good-natured smirk at the audience; Dave gave them one of his winning smiles and gave Mike a nod to let him know he was ready.

They forgot about the pressures upon them as they began. Mike lost himself in his guitar playing, and Davy focused his entire consciousness on singing—keeping time with the tambourine was much more of an instinct for him. If they had been paying attention, they would've noticed the blond and the brunet boys watching with the same amount of awe and nervousness that Mike and Davy had when they had been watching _them_.

The audience loved "Papa Gene's Blues;" more importantly, the judge did, too. He continued to watch with expectations as the duo launched into "Nine Times Blue."

It was partway through that song that it happened—it was a quiet little _twang_, but to Mike and Davy, it was as loud as a clap of thunder as the G-string on Mike's guitar snapped. Davy's eyes widened as he heard it, and then as his accompaniment halted in its tracks, he glanced over his shoulder and caught a fleeting glimpse of Mike with a deer-in-the-headlights look.

At that point, instinct took over—for the both of them. Davy dashed across the stage and held the microphone out so that they could both sing into it, and Mike, who had gone on this long without singing, now started singing.

Davy suddenly got a mischievous look in his eyes as he started harmonizing, forcing Mike to sing the melody of his song, and sing it louder—Mike gave him a look, but his eyes betrayed the smile that he was trying to hide, and the two managed to finish the number a cappella—and finished it to an applause that indeed rivaled the applause that had been given to the blond and the brunet from the previous act.

They didn't breathe a sigh of relief until after they had gotten off of the stage, after which they both exchanged glances—and relieved chuckles.

"What're the odds that G-string had to go at _that_ precise moment?" Mike asked.

"I don't know, but I'll tell you one thing," Davy said. "You sang. And it wasn't a disaster, now was it?"

"Well, no," Mike conceded. "And I'll admit… that was fun."

"Then you should do it more often," Davy said, giving him a good-natured punch on the arm. "And you can bet I'll be seeing to it that you do."

"Oh, come on, Tiny; that was a fluke…"

"That was no fluke! Not only was it _not_ a disaster and _not_ a fluke, the audience _liked_ your singing."

"Gosharooney, you bet we did!" the brunet boy said, as Mike and Davy returned to their seats (Mike rooting through his guitar case for another G-string). "I'll bet you anything that tonight's gonna come down to you versus us!"

"Yeah!" the blond agreed, and then he blinked. "You… you didn't actually _plan_ for that string to go, did you?"

"Are you kidding, Man?" Mike said, with a bemused look on his face.

"I didn't think so…"

Mike just smiled again, but his smile soon faded as his search through his guitar case came up empty.

"Agh, I don't believe it—I don't have a spare G!"

Davy winced.

"You mean we have to go out and buy one?"

"Well, you don't have to; you're more than welcome to stay here and check out the rest of the competition. I can go and make a quick run to the nearest music store."

"Hey," the blond said. "I'm sure I've got a spare G in my guitar case; you can have it!"

Mike looked up, blinking in surprise.

"Really?"

"Sure! Just because we're rivals doesn't mean we shouldn't help each other out."

"Well, I'm much obliged, Shotgun," Mike said, tipping his hat.

"You're welcome… I think. First time I've ever been called that…"

"He means it as a term of endearment," Davy assured him. "Same reason why he's always calling me 'Tiny…' I'm Davy, by the way—and this is Mike; you can probably guess from the accents and the costumes that he's Lone Star, and I'm Union Jack."

"I'm Peter," the blond said. "Connecticut Yankee."

"And that would make me the California Dreamer," the brunet said, with a grin. "Name's Micky." He turned back to Peter. "Hey, I thought you were gonna give them that G-string?"

"Oh, right!" Peter exclaimed. "I'll go get it…"

"Actually, maybe I'll follow your example and leave my guitar case in the prop room, too," Mike said, picking it up. "Lead on."

Peter indeed led the way, and the conversation continued as they walked.

"So how long have you guys been doing this act?" Micky asked.

"About a year and a half," Davy said. "You?"

"Oh, we've been at this for a while—couldn't even tell you how long," Micky replied. "Peter and I have been traveling around Southern California, just playing for anyone willing to hire us."

"It's not going too well, though," Peter confessed.

"Yeah, I figured that when you said that you were kipping at a bed and breakfast," Davy said.

"…Kipping?" Micky repeated.

"Oh, you Colonists…" the English boy mused, rolling his eyes.

"One of these days, we're writing a British-slang-to-Texan-drawl phrasebook," Mike deadpanned.

Micky and Peter both got a chuckle out of that, and Peter now opened the door that they had arrived at. Inside the room were rows and rows of shelves with a vast array of items and props stored upon them; Peter's guitar case had been proper up against one of them, and it only took him a moment to find the G-string.

"Here you go," he said.

"Thanks; you saved me a lot of trouble," Mike said, stringing it onto his guitar and testing it out. He then rooted through his pockets. "I'll pay you for it if you just give me just a second to find my money."

"Oh, no; please, don't bother!"

"Come on, Man; it's only right—"

"I insist—no strings attached!" Peter said. "…Well, no strings except the actual string, obviously…"

"But you only said just a few seconds ago that you don't have enough money!" Davy pointed out. "For the second time, I might add!"

"It's just a guitar string; it's not like it's… well, something like that," Peter said, glancing at what looked like a jade sculpture of a monkey on one of the shelves.

Davy glanced at it, and he suddenly frowned.

"What's wrong?" Micky asked.

"I've seen that thing somewhere before," Davy said, taking it off of the shelf. "But where?"

"Well, it's probably just a prop from some show you must've seen here," Micky said, waving it off. "Come on; I want to go back to the stage and get a look at the rest of the competition!"

"Hold it," Mike said, now looking at the monkey sculpture, too. "Hold everything for just one second."

He searched his pockets again, this time coming up with the page of newspaper from the morning; he had been carrying it with him since it had the address of the theatre; the article about the stolen jade sculpture had been right opposite of the advertisement.

"Davy? I think I found where you saw that thing before…"

The others crowded around him, looking at the article that Davy had glanced over early that morning.

"That picture of the missing jade sculpture looks just like that prop!" Peter exclaimed. "Wow, what're the odds of that?"

There was a bit of silence as the four looked from the paper to the figure in the English boy's hands.

"…It _is_ a prop, right?" Peter went on. "I mean, it has to be a prop! This is a prop room; everything in here is supposed to be fake!"

"Yeah—_supposed_ to be," Micky said, resting his chin in his hand as he pondered. "That's also why it'd make sense to stash something here—no one would give it a second look since they'd pass it off as a prop."

"There's that," Mike agreed. "And never mind the fact that all of the objects surrounding where that thing had been are covered in a layer of dust—while that thing didn't even have a speck of dust on it…"

Davy gulped, staring at the thing in his hands.

"You know, it _is_ quite heavy…" he said. "Is… is there an easy way to tell real jade from a replica?"

Micky suddenly paled.

"Well, offhand, I'd say the fact that there are three angry guys standing by the door, blocking any and all means of escape we might have, kinda suggests that we might have the real McCoy here."

The other three turned to face the door in shock, staring down the three thugs in suits glaring back at them—one of them had his hand in his coat pocket, obviously going for some sort of weapon.

"What do you think, Guys?" Micky squeaked, his nervousness making itself known in his voice.

Mike exhaled, his mind racing as he positioned himself so as to shield Davy from view as much as possible.

"I reckon we just got ourselves headlong into a whole mess of trouble," the Texan declared.


	6. And Then There Were Four, Part II

_Notes: And here's the conclusion of my "how they became the Monkees" story from last week! I'll be updating this story collection a little less frequently since I want to focus on Red Sky (and also because I'm looking for inspiration regarding vignette ideas…), but I will be adding to this from time to time_.

* * *

Nobody said anything as one of the three thugs pulled out a switchblade knife from his pocket.

"Well, that's a lovely little knife you got there," Mike said, after a while.

"Shut up, Cowboy," the man holding the knife said. "We want the jade."

One of the other two thugs now stepped forward, pulling Davy out from where Mike was trying to shield him.

"No…!" the Texan exclaimed, but he was rewarded for his concern with a forceful shove that sent him crashing back into Micky and Peter.

"Mike!" Davy cried, trying to get back to him, but his captor hooked an arm around his shoulders, lifting him off of the ground.

The man with the knife now stood in front of them, holding the tip of the blade up, a few inches from English boy's neck.

"N-Not the throat, please…" Davy said, his voice quivering. "I need that throat; I'm a singer…"

"Then tell us what you did with the jade; you must've palmed it or something. And we want it."

"Let him go!" Mike ordered, as Micky and Peter helped him to his feet. "He's just a kid!"

He moved forward to try to help him, but the third thug blocked his way.

"Davy!" Mike cried.

"The jade, Shorty. Where is it?" Knife Man asked again.

"I have it!" Peter blurted out, unable to take any more of this. "He gave it to me when you guys showed up. Please, let him go!"

The blond stepped forward, holding out the jade figure, but Mike held out an arm to stop him and took the figure from him.

"First you hand Davy over to us, and then you get your jade."

"You ain't in a position to bargain, Cowboy," Knife Man said. "Unless you want your midget friend here receiving a tracheotomy, I suggest you comply with our demands rather than try making up your own."

Davy cringed as he felt the tip of the blade make contact, and Mike's resolve crumbled to dust.

"Okay, take it! Take it! Just don't hurt him!"

He handed the jade figure over to the man blocking his way. Knife Man put the weapon away and gave a nod to Davy's captor, who callously shoved the boy across the room, where he landed at Mike's feet.

"Davy…!" the Texan gasped, kneeling beside him. "Davy, are you okay?"

"I think so," the English boy said, bravely.

"I'm sorry," Peter said. "I know you gave the jade to me to keep it safe, and I tried not to say anything…"

"You did the right thing, Pete," Micky said, placing him on the shoulder. "You couldn't let them hurt him—or any of us."

"Before we start relaxing, I don't think we're out of the woods just yet," Mike said, as he glanced back at the three thugs. They seemed to be discussing something.

"Just get rid of 'em; they know too much."

"We can't make any decisions without the final word from the boss," Knife Man reminded him. "We'll lock 'em up here until he tells us what to do."

"Lock us up?" Micky yelped. "In _here_? But there're no windows in here! We'll suffocate!"

"Well, that'll solve our problem, then, won't it?" Knife Man mused. "Saves us the trouble of finishing you off. Anyone will think you got locked in here accidentally—and that's what we're going to bank on."

The four boys charged for the door as the thugs departed, but Knife Man quickly locked the deadbolt lock behind him. They pounded on the door, hoping that someone would hear them, but no help came.

"What do we do?" Peter asked, worry etched into his face. "Micky's right; with four of us in here, the amount of air is limited."

"We've got to try to break that door," Mike said. "If not all the way open, then at least get it off one of its hinges to let some air in here. Peter, I need you to help me try to kick it. Davy, you and Micky look for an ax."

"An ax?" Davy repeated.

"Anything that can hack into this door!" Mike exclaimed. "There has to be something remotely sharp among those props! I'll even take a screwdriver to undo the hinges—just look for _something_!"

"Right," the English boy said.

He and Micky started searching through the shelves as Mike and Peter took turns kicking and tackling the door—and then trying to do so in tandem. Time ticked on and on; all four of them were sweating from their seemingly fruitless efforts and the stuffiness of the room they were in.

"It's not even weakening," the Texan grumbled, massaging his shoulder after having charged into it repeatedly. "Are you guys having any luck?"

"Nope," Micky sighed. "It's like they child-proofed this room and locked away anything remotely dangerous."

"…That's it, then," Peter said, sinking to the floor in despair. "There's no way out." He cringed. "This is all my fault! Why'd I have to go store my guitar case in here? Argh! I really _am_ stupid…!"

"It's a prop room, Shotgun; you did the logical thing," Mike assured him.

"If anything, it's my fault for ever giving that jade a second look," Davy sighed. Frustrated, he kicked a small storage box; it scooted a couple inches across the floor, and that was when Davy noticed part of the grate in the wall that had been obscured by the box. "Hey, what's this?"

"Eh, it's just a ventilator shaft," Mike said, casting a glance at it.

"Oh," Davy said.

A moment passed, and the four looked from the grate, to each other, and back again.

"A ventilator shaft!" they repeated, in unison.

"Air!" Micky added, staring at it with almost-shining eyes. "We're saved!" He pushed the box out of the way and sighed as he felt the breeze from the grate. "Ahh… …Hey, look, Guys! There aren't any nails or screws holding this grate in."

"So?" Mike asked.

"Oh, come on!" Micky said, pulling out the grate with a few sharp tugs. "I've seen this in a ton of movies—you get someone to crawl through the air ducts and get out at the next grate—and then he's free!"

Mike's eyebrows arched, not so sure that would work.

"That's an awfully tight fit," Peter said, looking at the rather skinny duct. "We'd need someone really small and skinny…"

Davy's eyes widened.

"I bet I could manage it!" he exclaimed, eager to try.

"Okay, hold it…" Mike said, deciding to stop this before it went any further. "Davy, don't do this. You don't know what's in there—fan blades or venomous spiders or… all sorts of nasty things. We don't need to try to recreate the Great Escape; we've got a source of air in here, and that's the most important thing. Yeah, those creeps are going to get away with that jade statue, but at least we're going to get out of this eventually."

"Unless their boss says they should make sure we're out of the picture," Micky said. "And then they come back here and see we've got this vent. Then they'll find some other way to finish us off…" He shuddered. "Okay, _I'll_ go."

"Be careful!" Peter pleaded.

"Look, I don't think this is such a good idea…" Mike said, but he may as well have been addressing the wall.

Micky tried to scrunch up his shoulders and fit through the grate, but it soon became clear that his shoulders were too broad; he only made it about a couple feet down the duct before he couldn't move any further.

"…Uh, Guys? Guys? …I'm stuck…"

"Well, stop kicking, and we'll get you out," Mike said, dodging one of Micky's flailing feet.

It took them a moment, but they managed to free the brunet from the ductwork.

"Guess it's back to me," Davy said, moving to try.

Mike seized him by the collar of his costume.

"Don't even think about it, Tiny."

"Why is it with him you just said it wasn't a good idea, and for me, it's 'don't even think about it?'" the English boy asked, frowning. "It's because I'm short, isn't it?"

"No; it's because I've only known him for half an hour, and, because of that, I can't tell him what to do."

"Well, you can't tell me what to do, either," Davy informed him. "You're not my mum!"

"Yeah, well, I'm the closest thing you've got to one over here!"

Davy gave him a perplexed look.

"…Somehow, I don't think you _quite_ meant to say that…"

Mike massaged the bridge of his nose; in his concern, his tongue had gotten ahead of his head.

"Okay, I'm the closest thing to family you've got," Mike said. "I know we didn't plan for that—in fact, we tried our best to avoid it, but there's no going back now. And that means that I can't let you go crawling around in the ductwork."

"So, don't let me," Davy said. "I'll still go, anyway. You can ground me after I free you all. And I _will_ get you out of here."

"Davy—!"

The English boy leapfrogged into open duct, prompting Mike to grab him by the boots and try to pull him out. Micky and Peter moved forward to help him, but Davy slipped out of his boots and kept crawling down the ductwork.

Mike looked at the two empty boots in his hands in frustration.

"Davy! Man, you'd better get back here, or you're in big trouble!"

But Davy had gone selectively deaf, whistling as he worked his way further down the duct. Mike gritted his teeth and let out a frustrated growl.

"You must really care about him a lot," Peter said, softly.

Mike looked back at the blond in surprise, but nodded; it must've been obvious from his reaction, he supposed.

"You know, if it wasn't for the obviously different accents, you probably could pass as brothers," Micky said. "Pete and I have been asked if we're cousins before—I guess the hair was different enough that they didn't have to guess that we were bro—"

He was cut off as, from within the ductwork, came a horrible creaking and groaning of metal, followed by a cry of alarm from Davy, which was then cut off and followed by a thundering crash.

All the color drained from Mike's face as silence followed.

"Davy!" Mike cried. "DAVY!"

Micky and Peter watched on, horrified, as there was no reply. Mike made a fruitless attempt to try to fit through the duct, but couldn't get more than his head into the space. Mike now got up, crossing to the door and pounding on it, trying with renewed drive to try to force it open.

"Why didn't you _listen_ to me?" he hissed, but there was no mistaking the horror and unbridled worry in his voice.

Once again, the door refused to budge, and after Mike had expended all of his energy, he sunk to his knees, staring blankly at the floor, drowning in his helplessness.

"I'm so sorry…" Micky said, blinking back tears. "I shouldn't have come up with that dumb idea; I didn't think that… this would happen…"

"Maybe he's okay," Peter said, trying to hang onto some thread of hope. "Maybe he just ended up somewhere out of earshot…"

But Mike was inconsolable, his mind focused on "if onlys"—if only he had gone after Davy's ankles after he had slipped out of his boots… if only he had allowed his concern to set off his righteous anger enough to have intimidated Davy into not going…

He wasn't sure how much time had passed; it might have been days for all the worrying that he had been doing. But, suddenly, they heard the deadbolt on the door unlock. Mike got to his feet, ready to tackle their captors if they were about to enter, but he halted in his tracks as Davy stood on the other side of the door—covered in dust and cobwebs, but grinning from ear to ear.

"Davy!" Micky and Peter exclaimed, grinning with relief to see him safe and alright.

Mike was still too dumbstruck to say a word.

"I told you I'd get you out, didn't I?" Davy said, as he nonchalantly picked up his boots and put them back on as though nothing had just happened. "Piece of cake, that was; there's a whole level of rooms down there—some of them run right under the stage. That's where I landed, actually—right on a pile of old stage curtains. I would be lucky enough to get a soft landing…"

He trailed off as Mike suddenly seized him by the shoulders.

"Davy," he said, in a dangerously quiet voice. "You have no idea how much I want to absolutely _throttle_ you right now. We are going to discuss this later, but for now, we're getting out of here."

Mike released him and stormed out of the room, leaving Davy standing there, stunned.

"Mike…?" he asked.

Peter clapped Davy on the shoulder.

"He was really worried," he said. "And he had every right to be; from where we were standing, it sounded _really_ bad."

"Yeah, and seeing as though he warned you about going in there…" Micky said. "Well, you know…"

Davy blinked, stunned, and then picked up Mike's guitar, case and all, running after the Texan.

"Mike!" Davy called. "Mike wait!"

The Texan looked back, but then paused, silently waiting for Davy to hand over the guitar. He took it without a word.

"I'm sorry, Mike."

"You oughta be!" he retorted, but then sighed as Davy flinched. "Davy… just tell me one thing. _Why_?"

"…I had to get you out of there," the English boy said, quietly. "Micky was right—I mean, there was a possibility that they could've come back to finish us off. I couldn't let that happen—not when you've been such a good friend to me."

Mike sighed, looking upward in exasperation. Why is it that every time that Davy did something that gave him the right to get righteously angry, Davy's motivation was so unselfish that Mike just couldn't stay angry?

He placed a hand on Davy's shoulder, managing a wan smile.

"Don't you ever scare me like that again."

The smile found its way back onto Davy's face.

"Deal."

"Hey, you're both smiling again!" Peter observed, as he and Micky caught up with them. "That's great! Now we can all get out of here!"

"Oh…" Micky said, wincing. "My drums are still in the wings. I know I should be more concerned with getting out of here, but if I don't have those drums, we've got no act! And if we've got no act, we won't be able to get any money for food or lodging or _anything_ once we do get out of here!"

"Well, maybe they'll give us a reward once we return this," Davy said, pulling the jade monkey figure from his pocket.

The other three stared at him.

"I thought I gave it to them after you gave it to me!" Peter said, scratching his head. "How did you get it back?"

"It was down in the storage room I fell into," Davy said. "They must've left it there while they called their boss."

Mike's eyes widened.

"We need to get out of here-_now_!"

"I thought we already established that?" Davy asked.

"No; they're going to head to that room after hearing you fall in there—and then they'll see the missing jade and the broken ductwork and figure out that we must've gotten out—if they haven't already! They're probably on our way up here!"

"Then let's grab my drums and split!" Micky suggested.

Mike gave a nod; yes, he knew that perhaps Micky's priorities were somewhat skewed in this case, but Mike understood, being a musician, too; he wouldn't leave his guitar behind—especially not in a case like theirs, when their instruments were the things that kept food on the table.

The four hightailed it to the stage, where Micky gathered his drums onto the wheeled cart he had brought to store them on.

"Ah, there you are!" a voice said.

The boys jumped, but calmed down as they realized that the one talking to them was the talent show judge.

"Are you going somewhere?" he asked, seeing them pack up.

"Uh, yeah, we're leaving. Extenuating circumstances," Mike said, tipping his hat. "Thank you for the lovely time."

"You can't leave!" the judge said. "You're both scheduled to open the show in less than ten minutes!"

"What?" Peter asked. "You mean we made it past the preliminaries?"

"Never mind _that_; you mean it's 8:00?" Mike asked. They had been locked in that room for that long?

"That's right; where've you boys been? You—Connecticut Yankee and California Dreamer—you're opening. And Lone Star and Union Jack, you're right after them," the judge said.

"Look, that's great and all, but we're really going to have to withdraw," Mike said. "So thank you and good evening!"

"You can't withdraw!" the judge exclaimed. "Boys, I have our show's sponsor—the owner of the Vincent Van Gogh-Gogh Club—in the audience. I was absolutely raving to him about your two acts; he's expecting to see you. And if he picks a favorite, that lucky duo might end up with a summer-long gig at his club."

Four heads turned to the judge's direction.

"You must be joking!" Davy exclaimed. "Solid source of money for the entire summer? As in, our rent payment?"

"As in, our food and lodging money?" Micky added.

"Fellas!" Mike said, sharply.

"Mike's right," Peter said. "Money won't mean anything if we're… well… not here to spend it."

Mike nodded and moved to lead them off, giving his apologies.

"We're really sorry for running off like this, but we've got circumstances beyond our control…" He stopped in his tracks, trailing off as he saw the three thugs furiously searching backstage—obviously for them. "…Sweet mother of mercy…"

Mike now pulled an about-face, dragging the others back.

"Actually, we _can_ play," he announced.

"What?" Davy, Micky, and Peter asked, in unison.

"Excellent!" the judge said.

"On one condition," Mike added. "We're not playing as two separate acts; we want both of our acts on stage together."

"_What_?" Davy, Micky, and Peter repeated, with more intensity.

Mike gritted his teeth and jerked his head in the direction of backstage. The other three took a look and paled, now shrinking back to where Mike was standing.

"Both acts together?" the judge repeated.

"Yeah," Mike went on, spontaneously. "It's the best way to be able to compare us—side by side, rather than one after the other. It's a whole lot fairer that way, too—no worrying about first impressions or lasting impressions…"

The judge's eyebrows arched, unaware of what they seemed to be fretting about.

"Well, if that's what you want, have at it—you're on in five."

"And after that, we're splitting," Mike added. "And when I say we're going to run, I mean we're going to run."

"Fine. But I'll need your addresses and phone numbers so that we—and the manager of the club—will have a way to contact you as to the results of the contest."

"Mike and I are at 1334 North Beechwood Drive, Malibu," Davy rattled off, also giving their phone number, as Micky and Peter exchanged glances—for they had neither an address or phone number.

"Got it," the judge said. He looked to Micky and Peter. "And you two?"

"…Can we get back to you on that?" Micky asked.

The judge gave a shrug and left the stage, and Mike motioned for the others to follow him onstage.

Micky set up his drums, casting a nervous glance offstage; any second now, those three thugs could make it to the wings and see them onstage. And if that happened before the curtain rose and they were in view of people… well, there was no telling what their fate would be.

To the relief of all four of them, the curtain did open, and as the emcee announced that the two favorites to win would be playing together, Mike turned to the others.

"Y'all ready?"

Three fervent "No"s replied him.

"Well, neither am I. So play like our lives depend on it," the Texan said, casting a nervous glance into the wings. "Because they do."

Micky gulped, and as Mike started to lead with a riff on his guitar, the brunet randomly played on his drums with a beat that he hoped fit. Peter joined in with the bassline, and Davy kept time with his tambourine, every so often casting a nervous glance at the jade in his pocket.

Mike gave a sigh and then started to sing; random words came to his head, and he sang them—something about a circle sky and extraordinary scenes. About halfway through, the three thugs did make it to one of the wings and saw them there onstage, but knew very well that they could do nothing in front of all of those witnesses. And if it hadn't been for the thugs' looming presence offstage, Davy would've probably been thrilled to see Mike singing lead on his own volition.

Mike drew the song to a close after running out of lyrics; somehow, they managed to stop playing at the same time rather than as an unorganized mess. Mike threw a thanks to the audience as Micky hurriedly stacked his drums on their little carrying cart.

"What now?" Davy asked, seeing the thugs just waiting for them. Knife Man had one side of the stage covered, and the other two had switched their positions to the other wing in order to prevent their escape.

"Tactical retreat!" Mike announced.

He grabbed his guitar case and leaped from the front of stage to the choir bleachers below them. Davy and Peter followed suit, with Micky taking the front stage steps so as to get his drums down without damaging them.

Everyone stared at them as they dashed through the aisles—some of them clapped and cheered, thinking it was part of their act. But the boys didn't stop until they were out into the evening air.

"We made it!" Micky exclaimed.

"We're not out of the woods yet," Mike informed him. "We need to deliver that jade to the police—and it's a cinch that our friends over there will be following us."

"But we'll never be able to outrun them!" Peter exclaimed. "We don't even have a set of wheels!"

"But _we_ do!" Davy said, indicating Mike's GTO.

"Oh, Man…" Micky breathed, staring at the car with wide eyes. "That is one groovy ride! Have you thought about getting it customized?"

"Hasn't really crossed my mind," Mike said, unlocking the trunk.

"It's one of Micky's life goals to customize a car," Peter explained. "He loves mechanical and technological things…"

"Yeah, unfortunately, I've never had a car to customize," the drummer said, with a resigned shrug.

"Well, if I ever decide that this thing needs anything added to it, you'll be the first to know," Mike promised, as he helped store all of the instruments in the trunk.

Davy suddenly let out a yelp.

"Don't look now, but they've found us!"

The front door of the theatre opened, revealing Knife Man and his two flunkies. Mike and Davy made a break for the front seats while Peter and Micky scrambled over the back of the car and into the back seats.

Knife Man made a grab for Micky as he ran towards the car, but Mike pulled out of the parking space and sped off, leaving him grabbing empty air.

"Uh-oh…" Peter said, turning around to see the thugs getting into a second car. "They've got wheels, too."

Mike responded by speeding up; his hat flew off his head, only to be caught by Peter just in time.

"Where exactly are we going?" Micky called.

"I'm hoping to get the attention of a traffic cop!" Mike responded.

"I don't think that'll be a problem," Davy said, flatly, as he was thrown against the car door when Mike made a sharp turn.

"Bite your tongue; at least I wasn't the one who wrecked the ductwork!"

Davy's reply was halted by Micky's frantic cry.

"They're catching up! They're catching up!" he yelped. He blinked in surprise as the crooks' car now pulled alongside them. "…They're passing us?"

"No…" Mike said, going pale as he realized what they were planning. "They're trying to run us off the road!"

He slammed the brakes of the GTO just as Knife Man's car tried to sideswipe them; they had put a lot of force into their attempted swipe, which had missed the GTO by an inch; the momentum carried Knife Man's car across the lane, where it skidded off the road and got stuck in a muddy ditch.

"HA!" Micky exclaimed, getting up to glare at the thugs, who were unhurt, but well and truly stuck. "Now that's karma if I've ever seen it! Take that!"

"Micky, sit down!" Peter pleaded, as Mike sped the GTO up again; Micky obliged, and Mike didn't slow the car down until they were a safe distance away.

* * *

Mike eventually found a police station—it shone like a beacon after everything the boys had been through in the last several hours. Davy finally was able to get the jade monkey off of his hands, and after a few more formalities involving reports and statements as to what had happened, along with a description of the thugs and their car, they were finally allowed to leave.

It was nearly midnight by the time the four musicians headed out into the Los Angeles night air.

"Man, what a day…" Mike yawned.

"And night," Davy added.

"Yeah, that's right; it's past your bedtime."

"Oh, ha ha…" the English boy laughed, sardonically.

Peter and Micky both grinned, amused.

"You two are really lucky to have each other," the blond observed. "I know I've felt that way about Micky and me, too."

"Yeah, if you've gotta be broke and hungry, having someone to share it with makes it a whole less unbearable," Micky agreed, as he moved to open the GTO's trunk.

"What are you doing?" Davy asked.

"Getting my drums and Pete's guitar. Now that this is all over, we can go on to wherever it was we were going."

"…Where's that, Mick?" Peter asked, baffled. "I didn't think we had plans to go anywhere…"

"Wherever the road takes us, Pete. Wherever the road takes us."

"Well, wait a minute!" Mike said, placing a hand on Micky's shoulder. "It's not over yet—not until we're sure those three who took the monkey statue are behind bars. What happens if you run into them?"

Micky looked to Peter, who gave a helpless shrug. He had no idea.

"Keep running, I guess," he offered.

"Well, that won't do…" Mike said.

And Davy now looked to his companion.

"Mike, are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I think I am, Tiny," he replied, and he turned back to Micky and Peter. "Hey, uh… You know, we've got room at our place. It was pre-furnished, and had two sets of beds in each of the bedrooms; we've been using those extra beds for storage space, but we could easily make room for you."

"We couldn't impose…!" Peter exclaimed.

"Look, you can't stay out here with those blokes running around, and you can't afford to stay anywhere else," Davy pointed out.

"Yeah, but we have no way to pay you, either!" Micky said.

"Well, it's not like the rent is going to go up because we have guests," Mike pointed out. "You want a written invitation or something?"

Micky and Peter exchanged glances again.

"Well, okay," Peter said, at last. "But just for tonight."

* * *

And so it came to pass that Micky and Peter arrived at 1334 North Beechwood drive, fully intending to leave the next morning. But they ended up never leaving; the next morning, as they were halfway through a breakfast of pizza that Davy had managed to salvage from the fridge, the phone rang. Mike answered with, drawling a "Hello" in between bites.

The caller had turned out to be the owner of the Vincent Van Gogh-Gogh; he, the judge, and the audience had almost all unanimously agreed that the combined performance of the Connecticut Yankee and the California Dreamer with Lone Star and Union Jack was worthy of first prize. The club owner went on further to say that he was willing to hire both acts for a summer-long gig, but on the stipulation that they performed together, as they had done the previous evening.

"So if you and your friend can find out where those other two musicians got to and can convince them to go along with it, you're all hired," the owner finished.

"I think we're all in luck," Mike intoned, glancing back at the other three, who were looking back at him. "Gentlemen, we've collectively won the $250 prize, and, furthermore, we are all hired for the summer at the Vincent Van Gogh-Gogh—providing that we agree to play as a quartet rather than two separate duos."

He held the phone receiver out.

"We'll do it!" they all chorused, in unison.

That was more than satisfactory for the club owner; they would start the coming weekend, so as to provide them time to adapt their different setlists to their new arrangements.

"How about that…" Davy mused, after they had said their thanks and goodbyes to the club owner. "We all won the money, and we all got the gig." He looked to Micky and Peter. "Since we've got a lot of practicing to do, you may as well stay here for some more time."

"Yeah, we may as well…" Micky said. "But do you think we can really make this work—I mean _really_ make this work?"

"Well, we made it work last night," Mike pointed out. "But we're going to have to come up with a name to refer to our combined act—referring to ourselves as 'The Connecticut Yankee, the California Dreamer, Lone Star, and Union Jack' is going to get old really fast…"

They pondered over this for a moment, and then Peter reached into the pocket of Mike's jacket from his costume that he had draped over one of the chairs the previous night, pulling out the newspaper article about the jade monkey.

"Well…" the blond said, after glancing at the picture of the monkey in the article. "Seeing as though it was this monkey that inadvertently brought us together onstage last night, I say we name our act after it! …But it shouldn't be _too_ obvious, I think; we should probably tweak it just a little bit so that only we know the real significance behind it, of course…"

The other three exchanged glances with each other and then with Peter, nodding in agreement.

The decision was unanimous.

And the rest, as they say, was history. The summer was a success for all of them (except for Knife Man and his flunkies, who had been found still trying to get their car out of the ditch and had been arrested overnight); adapting their songs to a quartet ended up working out so great, that even after the summer had ended and their seasonal gig at the club had come to an end, the Monkees couldn't even consider the thought of splitting up into two duos again, leading to Micky and Peter becoming permanent residents of the little beachhouse.

It was a testament to the power of serendipity—a chance meeting had led to the discovery of an amazing shared talent. Micky eventually got his wish of being able to customize a car; Mike eventually let him go at it with his GTO, which, by the end of Micky's project, had been named the Monkeemobile. And though Davy and Mike (who no longer had any qualms about singing lead) remained the best of friends due to having known each other the longest, as did Micky and Peter, there was no denying that all four of them shared a strong kinship with each other—and that, perhaps, had been the most valuable thing they had ended up finding that fateful day at the Great Oak Theatre.


	7. Taking the Long Way Home

_Notes: This little ficlit was done on a request from an anon reviewer, who requested me to do something with episode 6, "Success Story." This vignette serves to fill in a couple of the gaps between the timeskips, mainly how they suddenly switched from Grandpa Jones' rant after dinner to gloomy Davy the next morning, as well as explain why Mike's goodbye to him was a simple "Be good" as opposed to something else._

* * *

Though the days of Lone Star and Union Jack were behind them now, having given way to the Monkees, life seemed to go on as normal for Mike and Davy, despite the addition of two new roommates. The other three had, soon after forming the Monkees, unanimously voted Mike as their leader, and his first item of business was figuring out their finances. With the money they had earned from their summer playing at the Vincent Van Gogh-Gogh, they managed to hold onto a little bit of spending money—and with Davy's final year of school providing the much-appreciated housing reimbursement, they actually got the chance to buy things they didn't exactly need, but decided would be interesting—perhaps the most interesting of these was when Peter bought a talking pull-string dummy in a three-piece suit. The others quickly learned to appreciate it; Mike was the one who ended up naming the thing "Mr. Schneider"—just because he could.

They didn't have money to burn for long, however. The financial crisis started once again after Davy had finished his schooling—and the housing reimbursement stopped for good. They went over their options—which included, among other things, Micky trying to convince Davy to flunk his final exams so he could stay another year. Davy had balked at this, not because of the potential embarrassment, but out of apparent fear of what his grandfather would do to him if he did that.

It was then that Mike had to wonder about what was it about Davy's grandfather that seemed to convince his friend to toe the line just at the very mention of him—despite the obvious fact that he was clear on the other side of the world.

Mike eventually found out all too well that fateful day that Davy received a telegram from Grandpa Jones himself, announcing his imminent arrival. Panic was the understatement when describing what happened—especially after Davy admitted that he hadn't been truthful in regards to what he had told his guardian.

Mike's idea to try to make it seem as though Davy had been the success he had claimed he was had started off well, but fell to pieces—and when Grandpa Jones angrily announced that Davy would be going back to England the next day, well… Mike had never felt like a bigger failure more than at that moment. Whether or not their music was successful was nothing compared to letting down his best friend.

That night in the Pad was the gloomiest one the beachhouse had ever seen. Grandpa Jones retired for the night in the room that Davy and Peter usually shared; they both were giving him a wide berth—Peter resigned himself to sleeping on the backless couch in the living room, and Davy wasn't going to sleep at all, it seemed. Davy stood on the balcony, staring out at the beach, the waves, and the sky, standing completely still. A passerby could've easily mistaken him for a statue.

Mike came back downstairs to check on them after some time. Peter looked up as he arrived, also unable to sleep.

"Mick's awake upstairs, too," the Texan said. "Davy never tried to turn in?"

"Nope," Peter sighed. "He's just been standing there. How's Micky taking it?"

"He's trying to convince himself that this is all a bad dream."

Peter winced.

"I'd better talk to him," he said heading up the narrow spiral stairwell.

Mike watched him go before glancing out at the balcony and joining Davy there.

"Hey, Tiny."

Davy didn't move, and Mike placed a hand on his shoulder; Davy's grip on the balcony railing tightened. The Texan sighed, but continued to speak.

"Look, I'm sorry this didn't work out. But maybe it's for the best, you know?"

"How can you say that?" Davy hissed.

Mike took a step back, startled by the retort.

"You don't know what's best for me—and that's the whole reason why he's not letting me stay!"

Aside from his initial shock, the Texan didn't even flinch; he knew that Davy had to vent his frustrations and emotions somehow—better now than later, Mike supposed.

"I didn't say that it was absolutely the best thing," Mike said, calmly. "I said 'maybe.' I'm not going to pretend that I know the answers. But I do know one thing."

"Oh?" Davy asked, darkly.

"By the end of the year, you're going to be eighteen," Mike reminded him. "After that, well… there's nothing keeping you over there in England."

"A lot can happen between now and then," Davy replied. "It won't take you long to find another tambourine player. And trust my grandfather to come up with some reason for me to stay even after I turn eighteen."

Mike folded his arms.

"Well, if that's you just throwing in the towel, then I guess I didn't know you as well as I thought I did."

Davy now covered his face with his hand; Mike wasn't sure whether it was because he was facepalming or if he was trying not to let on that he was crying.

"I guess I don't even know myself," he said, at last. "I'm sorry, Mike; I didn't mean to take it out on you…"

Mike gripped the younger boy's shoulders again.

"Hey…" he said. "Better me than on your gramps, right? That'd just make things worse."

"I ought to give him a piece of my mind…"

"No; that'll just give him further proof for his idea that you don't belong here," Mike said. "You just straighten up and fly right—and then get the heck back over here once you turn eighteen, got it? I promise; we'll wait. Think of it as you going on a trip and taking the long way back."

Davy looked up at him with a wan smile, and Mike had to force himself to keep one, too. In all honestly, he was consoling himself as much as his younger friend, trying to put on a brave face for his sake. He didn't want Davy to leave any more than Davy wanted to go. After all, Davy had ended up being the first real friend this loner ever had; like he had once said, they hadn't intended it to happen, but there was no going back now—and Mike wouldn't want to change a thing, even if he had the chance.

"Thank you, Mike," Davy said, at last.

"Anytime…" the Texan said. "Hey, you'd better get some sleep. You've… you've got a big journey ahead you tomorrow; you don't want to fall asleep on your feet."

"I'm not sleepy at all," the younger boy insisted. "You go on ahead; I'll have a kip if I feel tired."

But Mike sat down on the balcony, deciding to keep him company. When morning came, Davy still didn't budge from where he was standing, too upset to eat. Mike stayed away as Grandpa Jones went to talk to him for some time, but Davy wasn't in the mood to talk; he went for a walk on the beach, and Mike attempted to argue with the elderly gentleman at that point.

The Texan was fully aware of the fact that he was guilty of the same thing that he was accusing Grandpa Jones of—that he only wanted Davy to stay because he would miss him. The only thing that gave Mike's argument any semblance of validity was the fact that Davy wanted to stay, as well. It didn't do any good, however; Mike now admitted defeat, nothing left to do until Davy returned to say goodbye—and for Mike to remind him to be good long enough until he had the chance to come back.

After Davy left, Mike stood for a long time where he was at, his hand clutching the railing of the stairwell so hard that lines had been pressed on his palm. Micky and Peter finally convinced him to go out to the balcony, but Mike continued to stare at the front door as they talked.

And then something in him snapped. Who was he to give up on Davy so quickly, without even trying to fight back? If there was one thing that Mike knew that was one of the unwritten principles of the world, it was that you don't give up on your friends—you keep fighting for them.

He allowed the tears he had been holding back to make their presence known before declaring that they weren't taking this sitting down—not now, and not ever.

* * *

This time, Mike's plan ended up being successful… sort of. Grandpa Jones saw through their attempts at disguising themselves, but he, at last, conceded that he may have been a bit too hasty in attempting to take Davy away from the new family he had found here.

Davy had to admit that he found it hard to believe at first that his grandfather had changed his mind and was letting him stay; Davy spent the next several minutes waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it never did. The Monkees all stayed until the Grandpa Jones' flight left, and then they helped Davy carry all of his luggage back to the Monkeemobile—more than a bit of déjà vu for Mike, especially after Davy fell asleep in the front passenger seat _again_ due to his insomnia the night before.

The others let him sleep; it was most fortuitous, for Peter had the idea to do all of Davy's unpacking for him—down to carefully placing every last article of clothing that Davy had usually piled on the floor back in an organized mess.

Mike woke the English boy up once they had finished; Davy had just barely rubbed his eyes when the others suddenly threw handfuls of confetti at him.

"What is this?" he asked, between chuckles.

"Well, we didn't get a chance to give you a going-away party," Micky said. "So it was Pete's idea to give you a welcome back one instead."

"Your clothes are back on the floor," the blond grinned. "Just the way you left them."

Davy shook his head in amusement.

"I dunno what you did to try to convince my grandfather to let me stay here, but… whatever it was, thank you."

"Well, that was all Mike's idea," Micky said, as Mike looked decidedly elsewhere, somewhat embarrassed.

"Really?" Davy asked, looking up at the Texan. "What ever happened to 'straighten up and fly right,' and all of that you were telling me?"

"Okay, so I changed my mind," Mike said, shrugging it off; he didn't want to let on just how much he would've missed having Davy around. "You got what you wanted didn't you?" He pulled out his guitar from its case as Micky and Peter went to their instruments at the alcove, as well. "So let's get this party going, shall we?"

Davy returned the shrug and headed to the alcove, too. Mike followed him and Davy paused as the Texan briefly placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Welcome home, Tiny."

Davy just grinned in reply as he picked up his tambourine and maracas.

Yes. He was home.


	8. My Interests Collided

_Notes: This was pretty much inspired by all the Monkees-induced excitement this week, and based on "Monkees in the Ring," since there seemed to be one unresolved angle. Hopefully, this'll tide my readers over until tomorrow's update of Red Sky_.

* * *

For Mike, it was another one of those nights—those nights where, no matter how tired a person was, sleep just wasn't within reach. The last few weeks had been like that, actually—ever since Davy had attempted a career in boxing. Mike was convinced that Davy was only going get himself beaten up when he went on that boxing tour that Sholto had taken him on—and there had been little Mike could do other than wait in the Pad with Micky and Peter, realizing just how empty the place was without Davy there. And though the English boy made it a point to call them up whenever he had the chance, it didn't stop them all from worrying about him.

Of course, the other three found out that they made more than enough reason to fear for their younger friend; not only had Sholto had fixed the fights, but Davy had been subsequently lulled into overconfidence. And then Mike and the others found out that Davy was set to lose against the champ.

Somehow, the other three had managed to outsmart Sholto and his crony in time to save Davy and uncover the scam. And now they were home once again, able to worry about normal things—like where their next gig was coming from.

With Davy safe with them once again, Mike should've been able to sleep. But, that night, roommate Micky seemed to be in the midst of a highly intense dream involving bandits running off with his pizza, and Mike found himself waking up every five minutes as Micky cursed the Pizza Bandits in his sleep.

The exasperated and exhausted Texan now resorted to wrapping his pillow around his ears. This finally brought him some relief, but his sleep didn't last long. Mike eventually found himself being roughly awakened by someone shaking his shoulder. He promptly let out an annoyed groan.

"Mike?" Peter's voice asked, sounding worried. "Hey, Mike, can you hear me?"

"_What_?" the vexed Texan asked, still trying to keep his eyes shut.

"Have you seen Davy anywhere?"

Mike now opened his eyes for the sole purpose of glaring at the blond as he stood there in his bathrobe.

"Peter, do you know what time it is?"

"Sure; it's 5 in the morning."

"I have spent the last six hours trying to sleep, with limited success thanks to Micky and his Pizza Bandit dream—"

Micky obligingly illustrated the Texan's point by letting out a quick lament to the fact that the bandits had apparently taken his cheesy bread, too.

"Does it look like I've had the _chance_ to see Davy?" Mike continued. "Why are you even asking me, anyway?"

"Because he's missing."

Mike sat bolt upright now.

"What?!" he exclaimed.

"I don't know when it happened," Peter said, almost frantically. "I just got up to get a drink of water, and he wasn't in his bed. I guess I thought he went to get a drink, too, but… I couldn't find him anywhere; he's vanished—!"

"My deep dish!" Micky howled in his sleep.

Mike gave the brunet a long look.

"Wake him up," the Texan ordered the blond. "Then bring him downstairs; I'm going to look for clues."

Peter nodded as Mike grabbed his bathrobe and headed down the spiral stairwell. Neither the front door nor the back door showed any signs of a forced entry. Mike had been worried that one of Sholto's flunkies that hadn't been arrested might've taken Davy out of retaliation for Sholto's arrest.

Therefore, Davy must have left of his own accord. But where? And why would he leave without telling them?

Glancing at the table where they usually ate their meals, Mike noticed the early morning paper resting there, open, as though it had been read. The Texan scratched his head, wondering why Davy would find it necessary to presumably go out to get the morning paper, come back, read it, and then leave again; even if there had been some sale, the stores wouldn't have been open anyway.

Mike paged through the paper, trying to find some sort of clue. The headlines didn't reveal anything—neither did the entertainment, business, or editorial sections. And the comics certainly had nothing in them, either.

But as Mike took a closer look, he realized that something was missing.

"Where's the sports section?" he murmured to himself, looking around for it, but finding it nowhere.

He walked over to the small kitchen area, wondering if Davy had left it there while looking for something to eat. But as Mike's gaze glanced over the wastebasket, he paused, noticing the crumpled-up ball of newspaper stuffed inside it. It was the sports section, and Mike slowly un-crumpled it to reveal a glaring headline in big, block letters:

"**Dynamite" Davy Jones a Sham!**

"…Oh, boy…" Mike said, wincing.

The reporter was brutal in his coverage of Davy's fall from grace, somehow trying to make the English boy seem like a glory-seeker who had somehow put Sholto up to the scam while dodging punishment himself.

Mike was just finishing up with the article as Peter led the bleary-eyed Micky down the stairs.

"Find any clues?"

"Just this," Mike said, handing them the paper. "Found it in the trash can; Davy must've read it."

"Oh, Man…" Micky said.

"I was thinking along the same lines," Mike said.

"But where did he go?!" Peter exclaimed.

"I don't know, but we're going to have to look for him before something happens to him," the Texan said.

"Well, I've noticed that whenever he gets upset, he usually goes for a walk along the beach," Micky said, after a moment. "It's like the ocean gives him comfort. …Must be 'cause of his name…"

Mike gave Micky a look, wondering why he hadn't made that deduction himself.

"Okay," he said. "Pete, you look up the beach. Mick, you look around the boardwalk. I'll look down the beach."

"Right!" the others exclaimed in unison.

There was no time to change; still in their bathrobes, the three headed out the back door.

* * *

For a while, Mike saw nothing as he headed down the beach. But then he heard something from up ahead, just beyond some large rocks.

It was then that Mike realized he had found his missing roommate; illuminated by the light reflected from the setting moon, Davy had his boxing gloves on, mercilessly beating the stuffing out of a homemade punching bag—a small sack filled with sand that he had tied between two large rocks.

The English boy didn't even notice Mike standing there, and Mike was too taken aback by the sight to say anything; he just stood where he was at, watching as Davy continued to pummel the sandbag, his strikes punctuated by grunts of effort.

The younger boy eventually paused from exhaustion, standing there drenched with sweat as he inhaled and exhaled. His eyes didn't waver from the sandbag. Only about fifteen seconds had passed before the moonlight revealed his lip curling into a sneer, and he furiously began to pummel the sandbag again.

By that point, Mike had seen enough.

"Okay, that's it! Stop!" he ordered, running over to him. But Davy either didn't hear him or just ignored him and kept on beating up the sandbag. Mike now seized the younger boy's right arm. "_Stop_!"

"I won't stop!" Davy snarled back, continuing to wallop the sandbag with his left arm while struggling to pull away from Mike. "I'll show 'em all!"

"Show 'em all what?! That you've gone absolutely insane?!"

"That I didn't lie!" Davy retorted, successfully wrenching his arm free from Mike's grip and resuming the pummeling of the sandbag. "That I had nothing to do with Sholto's scheme! That I have talent at this!" He now punctuated the next sentence with a furious punch to the sandbag after each word. "That—" _Punch_. "I—" _Punch_. "Am—" _Punch_. "Not—" _Punch_. "A—" _Punch_. SHAM!" The last word escaped his lips as an enraged scream.

Mike now had to take a step back from him, concerned that he was going to take a hit from the flying fists. He could only stare, open-mouthed. What had happened to the Davy he knew? This… this was not his cherished friend and bandmate! He had only told the boy last night that his strength was in who he was inside:

"_Maybe you're not a great boxer. But you're gentle and you're kind and you're sincere_…"

There was none of that anymore, Mike realized—the dark look in Davy's eyes… the sneer… the hatred… That had never been there before. This wasn't the Davy Jones he knew; this was some complete stranger!

"What have they _done_ to you…?" he whispered, more to himself than to Davy.

Davy was oblivious to the shocked, hurt look on the Texan's face; he continued with his rant.

"They'll never doubt me again!" he vowed, his eyes ablaze like a man possessed. "They'll see that I can hold my own, and that I can do it legit!"

"Well…" Mike said, frowning as the words stung him. "If that's what you really want, then I have to admit that I'm quite disappointed. I would have thought our little talk last night settled all this, didn't it?" He stared back at Davy, who continued to pummel the sand bag as though Mike wasn't even there. "Excuse me for thinking that my words actually meant something to you!"

Mike had intended to turn around and leave Davy to his apparently newfound destiny, but he couldn't leave. He couldn't bring himself to, knowing that this wasn't who his friend truly was.

"Look, Man; I know what this is about," Mike said. "This isn't about you fulfilling some secret dream of being a boxer. That isn't you, and you know it! This is about the humiliation that was dumped on you, isn't it?"

Davy stopped in mid-punch for a moment, and that was enough to confirm Mike's suspicions. But the English boy soon resumed beating up the sandbag again, furious.

"I'll make them eat their words!" he howled. "Every—" _Punch_. "Last—" _Punch_. "One!"

Before he could land the final hit on the sandbag to punctuate his sentence, Mike grabbed his arm again. Davy tried to pull away again, and Mike responded by drawing the English boy into a hug as a spontaneous, last-ditch attempt to get him to calm down.

To his surprise, it seemed to work. Davy's anger dissipated from him as he seemed to grasp only now that Mike was standing there in front of him.

"Mike…?" he asked.

Mike released him from the embrace to look at him.

"…It's you," he said, softly, recognizing that this was the cherished friend he knew and loved.

Davy looked from Mike to the punching bag.

"I… I'm so sorry, Mike. I don't know what came over me."

"I do," the Texan sighed, drawing his arm around the English boy. "Believe me, I know how you feel."

Davy gave him a skeptical look.

"Oh, come on," Mike said. "You think I didn't feel humiliated when I made an idiot of myself in front of Joanie Jans?"

"They didn't blather about it in the paper with a headline like that, did they?" Davy pointed out. "So that people will read it and look down on you everywhere you go for the rest of your life?"

"Well, no…" Mike admitted. "Okay, maybe I don't know what you're going through. I'm sorry."

"See?"

Mike sighed.

"Yeah, I do see. So… this is what you want, huh? You want to show the world that you can be a prizefighter? I'm just asking since it seems to be your new dream since the last few weeks. I mean… how long has it been since you picked up the tambourine? Or even sang a note?"

Davy looked to Mike in surprise, realizing that he hadn't even thought about music since meeting Sholto.

"Not since this started…" he admitted.

"You need to ask yourself a very important question, then," Mike said. "How do you want to deal with what that paper said? You going to prove them wrong by beating people up for the rest of your life? Or are you going to prove them wrong by knocking them out with the power of that voice of yours instead? Because let me tell you something, Davy—what you've got here…" He gently placed his finger over Davy's throat, right where his vocal chords would be. "That's no sham."

"I… I guess you're right…" Davy admitted. "But can I even do that anymore? I mean… they'll recognize me from the paper and think my singing is nothing but a sham, too, even if it isn't." He cringed at the thought. "I'll drag the band down! I might as well just—"

Mike clapped a hand over Davy's mouth, refusing to let him continue.

"Look, Tiny," he said, after releasing him. "Are you expecting me to say, 'I'm your friend, so I'm going to support whatever choice you make, even if it means quitting the band?' Is that what you want to hear from me? Well, _too bad_—because you're not going to hear it. You're not quitting the band; I won't let you." He pulled the boxing gloves off of Davy's hands and threw them down into the sand. "And you can't play a tambourine with those on, so they've gotta go; you got that?"

Davy stared at the gloves lying on the sand for a moment before looking up at Mike, his expression unreadable. Mike tensed, not sure if any leftover rage would now be directed at him for what he had just done.

But his fears were unfounded; now, it was Davy's turn to spontaneously hug, and Mike just smiled and hugged him back, glad that he had finally gotten through to him.

"Mike, I'm sorry… I'd wanted a snack, and then I got bored, so I went to get a paper, to read while I was eating, thinking they'd have written about us stopping Sholto's scheme. I… I didn't expect such a brutal—"

"Hey, it's fine," Mike said. "Just… leave a note the next time you run off somewhere, okay?"

"There won't be a next time," Davy promised.

"And I'm glad to hear that, Tiny."

They were soon aware of Micky and Peter calling for the both of them, who had, obviously, found nothing and had been concerned at losing track of Mike, too. Davy and Mike called back to them, and soon, the four were together again.

"Davy, don't you ever do that again!" Micky chided. "You had us scared out of our minds!"

"What he means is, 'Is everything okay?'" Peter asked, softly.

Davy smiled.

"Yes; I believe it is," he said, as Mike gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "And I promise—no more pre-dawn practice boxing sessions. Actually, no more practice boxing sessions for me at all."

"And no taking a leave of absence from the band, either—no matter what people will think," Mike said. "And I'm not the only one who thinks that, right?"

"Of course you're not the only one!" Micky said. "We won't let ya quit!"

"If you go, we go!" Peter declared.

Davy cleared his throat, trying to fight against the lump forming there.

"Thanks, fellas," he said, softly.

It was as though being freed from the gloves had freed him from the cloud he had cast around himself. He was no boxer. And, deep down, he knew he didn't want to be one. But he hadn't been sure if he'd have been able to take the whispers and pointing fingers whenever he would have to play at another gig—and he hadn't wanted to put his bandmates through that, either. But here was Mike, leader and friend, refusing to even consider the idea of Davy taking a hiatus from the band—a decision firmly backed up by Micky and Peter, his two other best friends.

And that had made all the difference in the world.


	9. You are Not Alone

_Notes: this was put together from two requests; the second part based on "Monkees in a Ghost Town," specifically the unspecified amount of time between when Davy and Mike get captured and Micky and Peter make their valiant effort to free them_.

* * *

**Malibu, CA; a few years prior:**

It was not to be said that prior to meeting Micky and Peter and forming the Monkees, Mike and Davy, as Lone Star and Union Jack, didn't have their share of misadventures. Some were more dangerous than others; though Mike did his best to keep his younger roommate out of harm's way, there were things that not even he could count on.

The duo had been performing in a club on one night that turned out to be just such an occasion. It was a gig just like the ones they had done before many times. The crowd was enjoying their music, and it was looking as though that the night was going to be a very successful one indeed.

And then the earthquake hit.

It was the largest one that Mike and Davy had ever experienced; they'd felt minor tremors on a semiregular basis. But while those had just merely made them pause what they were doing in surprise, this was the one that threw them off of their feet—the one that the seismologists had issued vague warnings about how it was going to happen sometime, but they didn't know when.

Davy, rendered unsteady after the first set of seismic waves hit, had been thrown clear off of the stage when the second set of waves hit. Mike had fallen backwards on the stage, yelling for Davy as the boy disappeared from view due to the panicked, screaming crowd running every which way.

The quake hadn't even stopped yet, but, already, Mike placed his twelve-string aside and leaped from the stage to try to reach his companion. Through a gap in the crowd's legs, he saw the English boy curled up on the floor with his hands over his head—his small stature, for once, being a blessing as frantic feet missed him left and right.

As Mike made his way to him, he happened to glance up. The hanging lights on the ceiling were swinging wildly, and one of them was tilting over, due to two of the screws coming loose in the shaking.

It wasn't the loose screws that worried Mike; the remaining screws were holding the light fixture in just fine. It was the heavy, frosted glass globes that covered each of the bulbs that worried him; the two on the tilted end of the fixture were slipping loose from their holders—and the arc of the swinging light fixture took them directly above Davy.

Instinct took over at that point; Mike made his way over to Davy's side, only to shove the boy out of the way.

At that moment, the shaking stopped. Well, for Mike, everything stopped; he heard Davy yelp as he was shoved, and then he heard the sound of glass cracking—right on top of his own head. And everything went dark after that.

Davy had not been amused upon being shoved aside. Initially, he thought one of the fleeing patrons had tripped over him, but when the quake stopped and he dared to lift his head and look around, he froze in horror to see Mike lying unconscious on the spot where Davy had been only moments before. The Texan's outstretched hands told Davy all that he needed to know.

"Mike!" he cried, not even paying any heed to the broken glass as he drew his arm around the Texan's shoulders to try to sit him up.

But Mike was out cold. And despite the fact that they were surrounded by a crowd of people, Davy had never felt more lost and alone.

* * *

It was an agonizing amount of time that had passed since the earthquake—even though Davy wasn't sure if how long it actually had been. It had felt like an eternity, at any rate. Mike had been taken to a nearby medical center where other casualties of the quake were being treated, and Davy hadn't left his side, blinking back his tears of worry. The doctors, pressed with patients that had more serious injuries, hadn't had the chance to properly examine Mike. A nurse had checked up on him once or twice, but hadn't been able to make a definite conclusion as to whether or not he was suffering from a concussion.

Davy had still been waiting for someone to examine Mike when the Texan finally stirred. He tried to get up, but the English boy quickly grabbed him by the shoulders to stop him.

"You need to rest some more," he said, softly.

"I think my vertigo agrees with your statement," Mike said, trying to smile but wincing in pain instead. Davy gently helped him back onto the pillow. "Thanks, Tiny. How'd I get here?"

"They brought you while you were still unconscious," Davy said.

"…When did that happen?"

Davy stared at him.

"When you got hit on the head during the earthquake," he said.

"There was an earthquake?" Mike asked. His eyes widened, and he looked to Davy in concern. "You're not hurt, are you?"

Davy's jaw dropped further.

"One of us is in a hospital bed after being unconscious, and it isn't me," the English boy said.

"But you _are_ okay?"

"Yes, I'm okay," Davy said, running a hand through his hair in utter befuddlement.

"Good," Mike said, and he was able to relax again.

Davy just shook his head, deciding to let his friend rest as the guilt nibbled away at him—for there was no silencing the little voice in the back of his mind that reminded him that this was his fault, for there had been no other reason for Mike to get hurt other than to save him.

The English boy gently brushed the Texan's hair out of his eyes, discovering that he had already fallen asleep.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

A doctor came in at last at this point, concluding that Mike did not have a concussion—just a nasty bump. When Mike woke up again, the doctor gave him the green light to go home, and that is exactly what the duo did. Mike quickly moved on from the incident, acting as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened, but Davy did not soon forget. He knew that he never would.

* * *

**Somewhere in a ghost town; a few years later:**

As the cell door closed, imprisoning them, Mike found it difficult to look at his younger English companion. Not that he could blame him, of course; their captors were being absolutely blasé as they discussed about getting rid of them, and then deciding to leave it to their boss. It seemed that there just wasn't any way to get out of this one, and Mike could only hope that Micky and Peter were safe—wherever they were.

Mike tried not to look at their captors, instead looking back to Davy, who was sitting down beside him. He was trembling slightly.

Slowly, the Texan placed his hand on the young Englishman's shoulder.

"Hey," he said softly. "I don't want you to worry, okay? There has to be a way out that we're just not thinking about. And even if there isn't, well… I'm going to see to it that you get out of this. I promise."

Dave now turned to him with a look of utter disbelief, which took Mike by surprise.

"Really," Mike promised. "I mean it, Davy. I'm not going to sit around and let anything happen to you."

But the upset look on Davy's face did not go away; he turned away now, staring at the floor.

"Davy—?"

"Leave off," he ordered.

Mike sighed; Davy only slipped back into the King's English when he was _really_ upset or trying to make a point—and Mike was sure that there was no point he was trying to make right now.

"You have to believe me—"

"Oh, I believe you, Mike," Davy said. "I don't doubt your words for a second. You'll to whatever it takes to get me out of here." He shut his eyes for a moment. "But who's going to save you, Mike?"

Mike now stared at Davy for a moment. He shouldn't have been so surprised by his reply, and yet…

"Davy—"

"Sometimes I wonder," Davy said, cutting him off to hastily change the subject. "Would my life have been any easier if I had chosen a different flight to get to America? Or if I had chosen a different bus? I almost took an earlier bus, you know; the thing left without me and I got stuck on the next one…"

"You're saying that you're wondering how things would've been like if you hadn't met me," Mike translated. "Well, you probably would be better off; you'd be out there somewhere instead of here, wild and free like you always want, never having to worry about anyone or anything… including me."

"I'd hate it."

"Say what?" the Texan asked, surprised.

Davy looked back at him.

"Even if you think you're the one who's supposed to make all the sacrifices as the leader… Even if you think that you have to do all the worrying around here, you can't stop the rest of us from worrying about you." He hesitated. "That includes me."

Mike knew, of course. It just… surprised him at times. Being the responsible one—the one who had looked after Davy when it was just the two of them and then after all of his bandmates once they had formed the Monkees—he was so used to putting himself out ahead, sticking his neck out. Seeing his companions insist on returning it just… didn't fit. It was the way things were supposed to be, wasn't it? If a sacrifice was to be made, Mike was to be the one to make it….

But here was Davy, insisting to the contrary. Well, it made sense in Mike's head, he decided. Yet he couldn't stop his heart from thinking that the job of worrying should be his and his alone.

Mike now placed his hand on Davy's shoulder again.

"Don't think that I don't appreciate your concern, because I do," Mike promised. "I guess I gotta remind myself sometimes that y'all worry for me, too."

"You have no idea…" the English boy said. "You… you don't even remember the times…" He trailed off.

"What?"

Davy looked away.

"It's nothing," he insisted.

"Nothing, my foot; what's going on?" Mike asked.

"Well, you couldn't possibly know; there's really no need for you to worry about it," Davy said. "We need to get out of here, anyway… if we can."

"Since we can't for the moment, I want to get some idea about this thing I have no idea about," the Texan insisted.

Davy took a moment to glance at their two captors; they were both preoccupied, paying them very little attention, if any.

"They're not listening to us; go on," Mike prompted him.

"It's a bit silly, really," Davy said, trying to brush it off. "Superstitious nonsense. You wouldn't want to…" He trailed off as the Texan gave him a long, exasperated stare. "…Of course you would."

He sighed again.

"You know the saying—bad things happen in threes?"

Mike blinked, taking a bemused look at their surroundings.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure this hasn't happened before even once—forget _twice_," he pointed out, gesturing around the cell.

"That's not what I meant," Davy said. "What I meant was… Well, do you remember that really bad earthquake we had a few years ago? It was back when we were just a two-man act; we were playing at some dance club when it hit."

"To be honest, that whole day's kinda one big blur," Mike admitted. "I don't remember much of it."

"You wouldn't," the English boy said. "One of the glass globes on one of the hanging lights came loose and hit you on the head; you were knocked out cold."

"…Oh, yeah. Eh, go figure; I would choose the wrong spot to stand. Just my luck, I suppose."

Davy gave Mike a long look—the same look he had given him that day when he had woken up at the hospital.

"…You only got hit because you pushed me out of the way. I thought you might not have remembered; you were out for a long time, and you could hardly remember anything about the earthquake."

Mike pondered over this reveal for a moment.

"Well, I guess it's nice to finally know what happened," he said. "But I still don't see what that has to do with our little dilemma here. I mean… there aren't any ceiling lights here, so that's hardly something to worry about…"

"And then there was the second time," Davy went on. "Just a few weeks ago, when we were dealing with those two spies… Madame Olinsky got you."

"Now _that_ I remember," Mike admitted. "My shoulder is still sore from that knockout karate chop."

"Exactly," Davy sighed. "And the only reason we got involved with the spies in the first place is because I insisted on getting those maracas."

Mike was now beginning to put the pieces together.

"And now you're worried that this time—the third time—something _really_ bad is going to happen because I was trying to help you?"

Davy gave a nod, his gaze darting towards their captors' weapons.

"Look, Davy," Mike said. "I'm the one responsible for you and for Mick and Pete, too. I've always felt that I gotta stick my neck out for you guys in situations like this."

"No."

"What?"

"That's not how it's supposed to be, Mike. You're not supposed to be the one shouldering everything. You… you need let us help you." Davy hesitated. "Let _me_ help you."

Mike gave him a wan smile, but glanced at their captors through the bars.

"You'll get your chance, Tiny," he promised, after looking back at his companion. "Maybe not today, but some other time. And I'm sure I'll appreciate it."

Davy looked back at him, an expression of hope lighting up his face.

"You mean to say—"

"We're _both_ going to find a way out of this," Mike finished.

That was all that the English boy needed to hear. And with a little help from Micky, Peter, and some good, old-fashioned dumb luck, they succeeded.


	10. Not Too Late

_Author's note: Happy Monkee-versary! This piece was requested by PlushChrome (who has started an absolutely wonderful spin-off to this fic—do read it if you get the chance), and is based on the season 2 ep "Hillbilly Honeymoon." It's short, but I honestly feel that it's much more powerful at its current length_.

* * *

Mike was certain that his heart hadn't left its position since it had gotten lodged in his throat—that had happened when he had seen Davy hauled off to places unknown by Judd Weskitt and his mother. Even after they had finally been able to leave the wedding reception—and after Davy had seemingly bounced back effortlessly from Judd's attempt to throw him into the moonshine vat—Mike could barely focus on driving the Monkeemobile. And he was also barely paying attention to the conversation that his three bandmates were having.

"I wonder where Judd and Ellie Mae will go for their honeymoon…" Peter mused aloud.

"Probably the middle of nowhere," Davy said.

"Nah," Micky said, with a wave of his hand. "They already are in the middle of nowhere; they've gotta go _deeper_ into nowhere!"

Peter chuckled, and Davy just shook his head.

"Better Judd than me, at any rate…" the English boy said. He paused for a moment, realizing that there was one voice missing from the conversation. "Mike? Are you okay?"

Mike exhaled. Well, he was glad that Davy hadn't been traumatized by the fate that Judd had promised him…

…Maybe that was because Davy hadn't seen what Mike had seen… thought what Mike had thought when he and Micky had opened that sack…

The Texan kept his eyes on the road, but shuddered slightly. He had seen Judd hastily throw a sack behind his still as he and Micky arrived; Mr. Chubber's warning to them that the Weskitts might have already disposed of Davy in their own sickening way had been weighing heavily on his mind, but upon seeing Judd hastily hide the sack, Mike had hoped that they had, in fact, been on time.

The nose-playing, the pig-chasing… Mike honestly didn't remember that, even though it had only happened mere hours ago; all that he could remember was, once they had tricked the Weskitts into getting out of the house, opening up the sack and finding nothing but oats.

It had been too much for Mike; perhaps, had he been in a better, more rational state of mind, he wouldn't have snapped and believed that this was all that remained of his young, English friend. Micky had, apparently, jumped to the same conclusion Mike had, for they both had begun to cry, openly.

Mike had hardly ever cried; he certainly wasn't one to wear his heart on his sleeve. But having built up his hopes so much in regards to their being able to rescue Davy, and seemingly finding out that he had failed had been too much.

Of course, then the real Davy turned up, finally managing to free himself from his makeshift prison. Concerned and then confused by his companions' sorrow, he, naturally, joined in. Mike had been so out of it that it had taken him time to notice that Davy was right there, his head on his shoulder, safe and sound…

"Mike?!"

Davy's voice jolted the Texan out of his state of mind. Unfortunately, it also caused him to jolt the steering wheel of the Monkeemobile sharply to the right. The Pontiac swerved, nearly flying off the road, but Mike managed to stop it from happening by frantically counter-steering to the left.

The car stabilized, and Mike now pulled over and put it into park, his face pale as he stared at absolutely nothing, trying to catch his breath.

His bandmates, though shaken by the near miss, were by his side in an instant—Micky and Peter clambering over the seats and Davy placing his hands on Mike's shoulders. The English boy was the most horrified—for it had been his shout that had caused Mike to lose control of the car.

"I'm sorry…" Davy said, shocked. "I'm so sorry…"

Mike just looked to him, inhaling and exhaling.

"I just wanted to see if you were okay," Davy went on. "But you clearly aren't."

"I'm… I'm fine, Tiny."

"No, you're not," Davy said. "Micky, you'd better drive."

"Yeah, and find the nearest motel or something," Peter added, placing a hand on Mike's clammy forehead.

"Fellas, it's nothing," Mike tried to insist. "I just zoned out there for a moment; I'm fine now."

"Well, zone out or not, I'm taking the wheel," Micky said, with finality.

Though the Texan protested, he was outnumbered, and was soon exiled to the backseat with Davy to watch over him as Peter helped Micky navigate with the map and tour guide to find the motel.

Davy was most apologetic throughout the entire trip; somehow, he was convinced that it was his fault for somehow upsetting Mike.

"Look, I didn't want anything to do with Ellie Mae—honestly! I'm sorry for everything I put you through—all of you!"

"Hey, it wasn't your fault you were hauled off at rifle-point," Peter threw over his shoulder. "We don't blame you, do we, Mike?"

"Yeah. I mean, yeah, we don't blame you, Tiny," Mike said, stammering over his words more than usual.

The words seemed hollow, though, and the others all noticed all too well. They tried to cheer him up, but nothing seemed to work. Mike's state didn't change even after they reached the motel. Micky and Peter reluctantly retreated to their room, worrying about him but deciding to leave him in Davy's care. And Mike, for his part, sat on the edge of his bed, staring blankly out the window.

"Mike?" Davy asked, softly.

The Texan let out a "Hmm?"

"Mike, what's happened to you?" the English boy asked. "It's not like you to be so out of it—especially to the point of nearly getting us into an accident." Davy hesitated, wondering if the Texan was just a bit tipsy. "You didn't drink any of the moonshine at the reception, did you?"

Moonshine. The trigger word.

Mike shut his eyes, his body trembling with suppressed sobs as the horrible feelings from earlier returned to him full force.

Davy's eyes widened in horror at Mike's uncharacteristic reaction, and he was at his side in an instant.

"Mike, what is it?! What's wrong—!?"

He was cut off as Mike suddenly drew him into a hug.

"I thought I'd lost you…" the Texan said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I thought I was too late…"

Davy tried to speak, but his voice lost itself somewhere on its way. He returned the older boy's embrace, blinking back the tears in his own eyes.

"But you weren't too late…" he said, at last, ignoring the quiver in his voice. "In fact, you saved me. Judd had to stop throwing me in because you and Micky showed up."

If he had been trying to make Mike feel better, it didn't help, for now all the Texan could think of was what could've happened if he had been even five seconds late.

"Sure, I saved you this time…" Mike said, bitterly. "But what about the next time? Or the time after that? Our luck can't last forever."

"There you go again…" Davy said. "Always worrying about people other than yourself… I know I think about our luck running out, too. I'm sure Micky and Peter do, too, and that we all fear losing each other—and you."

"This is different," Mike said. "What kind of leader am I supposed to be if I can't even help you guys out? What am I!?"

Davy tightened his embrace.

"A friend who always tries his best," he said. "And that's what I hope I am, too."

Mike finally stopped trembling at those words.

"…Of course you are," he said.

Davy managed a smile, and then hesitated.

"It's always nice to know that you're there for us," he said. "I won't deny that. But you don't have to put so much pressure on yourself. You don't need to, Mike. Because when the chips are down… you always pull through—and pull us with you. That's something I never need to worry about—and neither should you." He gently squeezed the Texan's shoulder. "But I'll tell you what I am worried about—you. And if I know Micky and Peter, they are, too."

"Yeah…" Mike acknowledged, sighing. "So, what do you say—impromptu band meeting?"

"Perfect time for it."

Mike finally smiled now as he and Davy headed to Micky and Peter's room.

"But, just so you know…" the Texan said, as the knocked on their door. "I _am_ fine now. Thanks, Tiny."

Davy smiled back again.

This time, he knew Mike was telling the truth.


	11. What are We Doing Hanging 'Round?

_Notes: This is a response to an anon request for a fic inspired by "It's a Nice Place to Visit," though it ended up getting some elements of "Too Many Girls," as well. Mike's last lines in this installment are, indeed, a shout-out to the Doctor Nez crew on tumblr—and a foreshadowing to a future fic I have planned_.

* * *

Mike was angry. Oh, the Texan hadn't said anything, but Davy knew it; it was written in his eyes as they drove back across the border from Mexico—when he didn't even show the slightest bit of joy upon returning to his beloved home state.

That's when Davy knew. And it didn't take a genius to figure out that he was the reason for it.

Micky and Peter were getting nervous. The tension was as thick as a morning fog bank, and it was only after noon rolled around that Peter innocently inquired about lunch, and Mike silently went to the nearest exit and stopped at the first diner they came across.

"Hey, why don't you guys wait here, and I'll go and order something for us?" Micky asked, leaping out of the Monkeemobile before the others could protest. "It'll only take a minute!"

"Actually, it might take longer than that," Peter mused. "He didn't stop to ask what we wanted. Guess I'll go with him; what do you want, Davy?"

"Oh, uh… Anything will be fine…" he said.

"I'll just tell Micky to get you your usual," the blond grinned. "You, too, Mike?"

The Texan grunted in response, which Peter interpreted as a yes before scurrying off after Micky.

That left Mike and Davy in the Monkeemobile—to say nothing of a very awkward silence, as well.

"Mike?" Davy asked. "You, um… You're mad, aren't you? Mad at me?"

Mike drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel.

"Now why should I be mad at you?" he asked, calmly. "Just because you flirted with a bandito's girl and got yourself hauled off… Just because you nearly got me and Peter and Micky worried to death… Just because you got us all involved in a shootout… Why would I be mad at you?"

Davy couldn't even look at him in the eyes.

"I'm sorry…" he said. "I don't even know what happened… One minute, I'm thinking about how beautiful she was, and the next minute, she's kissing me, and then the next minute, I'm dancing for El Diablo!"

"That's how it always happens!" Mike snapped. "You lose your head over some chick, and then the rest of you follows suit!"

Davy just stared at the Pontiac's dashboard, not even protesting as Mike continued to berate him.

"At what point did it seem like a good idea to try to flirt with a bandito's chick?! Will you just explain your logic to me?!"

"…I've got nothing," the English boy said, quietly.

"This isn't the first time we've had to bail you out of hot water," Mike reminded him. Micky and Peter weren't even here for half the troubles you got into when it was just the two of us!"

Davy flinched; of those many occurrences included an incident where he had chosen to flirt with a girl who had been going with someone on the football team. The jealous boy—nearly twice Davy's size—had chased him back to the Pad. It was Mike who had attempted to defend his younger companion—and received a punch in the face for his efforts.

Mike had never said anything about it, then, and though Davy had apologized and helped him clean himself up afterword, he never once blamed him. But now it seemed as though the Texan had only been holding his tongue all these years—and today was the straw that broke his back.

"I'm sorry…" Davy said again. "I guess I never think about the possibilities of what could happen whenever I chase after a girl. I guess I always assume that you'll be there to bail me out, as you said…"

Mike grunted.

"I shouldn't have assumed that," Davy went on. "And I never will again. I promise. Goodness knows you've got enough troubles without me adding to them." He hesitated.  
"That was what you'd wanted to avoid when you took me in, wasn't it? You knew it would've happened."

"Of course it would," Mike said. "Just my luck…"

"I'll never go after another girl like that again!"

"You made that vow once," the Texan reminded him. "And you've failed miserably in keeping it."

"Guess I have…" the English boy winced. "…I don't really know what else to say, Mike, other than this: You know I'd never want to get you or Micky or Peter in danger! I don't think I could stand it if one of you three got hurt—and especially if it was my fault…! That's the last thing I'd want!"

"I never said it wasn't," Mike said, exhaling. "And you oughta know that the next time something like this happens…" He trailed off, unable to finish his sentence.

"I'm on my own next time?" Davy asked, glumly.

"No," the Texan said, sighing. "I'll probably end up doing the same thing—dress up as some other fella and bring Mick and Pete along for the ride to get you out of the hot water once again."

Davy hadn't expected that as a reply.

"What's that look for, Tiny?" Mike asked, his eyebrows arched. "You didn't really think I'd have left you with El Diablo—or anyone else like that, did you?"

"But you just said—"

"Yeah, I know. Look, I don't like heading into trouble, but I'll do it if you or Mick or Pete need help. Just don't expect me to like it all the time."

"That's fair enough," Davy said. "And you never do seem to get into that kind of trouble, but if you did, I'd be right there to get you out of it."

Mike managed a smile, his righteous anger slowly dissipating, leaving behind other feelings that had been obscured by the anger.

As these other feelings made themselves known, he let out another sigh. In all honesty, keeping Davy out of trouble had its moments; that was only a mild reason for getting upset. What was left behind was something completely different.

It was the same feeling he had felt that day, seeing Davy dancing with that little witch—Fern Badderly.

He slammed a fist against the steering wheel as the anger returned again, this time, for the true reason.

"Mike?" Davy asked, sensing something new wrong.

"Davy… I wasn't being completely honest with you. The bailing you out of trouble? That's only a minor reason. It's not as bad as I made it out to be. In fact, sometimes… it's even a little fun."

Davy blinked, surprised.

"Then… why were you so mad?"

Mike just shook his head.

"You'll think I'm crazy."

"We're all crazy," Davy reminded him. "There's nothing you could say that could change anything."

Mike smirked.

"Guess you've got a point there," he said. "And I suppose I owe you an explanation."

"No, you don't," Davy said. "You don't have to explain me getting on your nerves. I'm actually surprised that it took you this long to say anything about it."

"Well, you're going to get an explanation, anyway," Mike said. "I'm just paranoid that you're going to let a chick get to your head so badly, she'll convince you to ditch the group to be with her."

"I'd never do that!" Davy protested.

The Texan gave him a long glance.

"Fern," he said, and the English boy's face fell.

"Oh," he said. "Um, yeah. That was… She was…"

"A conniving, underhanded, whiny, and spoiled little witch," Mike finished. "I've got a few words to describe that mother of hers, too…"

"So… are you mad at me, or at them?" Davy wondered aloud.

"Bit of both, I guess," Mike admitted. "After everything Micky, Peter, and I have done for you, to see you run off with her without a second thought… Well, I didn't like it. Of course, Fern and her mother tried their hardest to get you to leave, but…."

"That was just a one-time thing," Davy assured him.

"Is it, though?" Mike wondered. "I wasn't sure… When I saw you flirting with El Diablo's girl, there was a part of me wondering if she was going to be the one who'd end up causing you to leave us all behind."

Davy's jaw dropped.

"Mike…!"

"It wasn't something I worried about until Fern came along. I mean… you turned down Princess Bettina—now _that_ was the Davy I knew… or thought I knew, at any rate. But the Fern thing made me realize that there's every chance in the world that there'll be more like her—and one of them just might win. They'll whisk you away, and our quartet becomes a trio, just like that." He sighed. "And now I'm mad at myself for thinking that. I mean, it's your life… You should be able to do whatever you want without me trying to send you on a guilt trip that you probably don't even deserve. I don't blame you if you're ticked off at me now."

But Davy wasn't; he just smiled.

"You'd miss me, wouldn't you?" he asked, softly. "You'd really miss me."

"Well, it's your fault, really," Mike said. "You've got this uncanny ability to get just about anyone to warm up to you—whether they want it or not."

Davy smirked.

"I should probably learn how to use this power; I could've convinced El Diablo to leave me alone…" he mused. He then sobered. "But that's not the issue here, is it?"

"Look, just forget I ever mentioned it, okay?" Mike said.

"I don't think so," Davy said. "I think it'd be a good thing to remember the next time I fall for a chick." He hesitated. "I don't know what the future holds; I'm not going to pretend that I can expect what's going to happen. But I can tell you one thing—even if some girl succeeds in 'whisking me away,' as you put it…" He smiled, placing a hand on Mike's shoulder. "I'll always come back."

Mike gave him a glance. They hadn't really given him a chance to prove it, since he, Micky, and Peter had resorted to trying to sabotage his dance with Fern, but Mike knew that for having known Davy as long as he had, the English boy deserved the benefit of the doubt.

"I believe you," he said. "And you can also believe that I'll still be there if some chick ends up dragging you into trouble."

Davy smiled back and nodded.

Micky and Peter now returned with a pile of food, taking note that Mike seemed to be much better than when they had left him. They knew it was Davy's doing, and they were grateful.

"So," Micky said, as they sat in the car and started to eat. "After we have partaken in this excellent—albeit unhealthy—meal, where are we headed?"

"Back to Los Angeles?" Peter queried.

Mike just smirked, the spark back in his eyes.

"We're heading to where the Texas prairie chickens run wild and free," he said, indicating the road sign that listed New Gallifrey alongside another couple of towns. "And it's gonna be… fantastic."

He knew it would be—it had to be, with his loyal companions by his side.


	12. Easy to be a Hero

_Notes: This piece was done on request from an anon who requested something from "Royal Flush," which is the first half. The second half is based on events that happened in "Monkees in Texas," and was also done on a request from macberly; I actually have a full-length fic planned that'll take place in Texas, but that isn't for a long, long while yet, and I didn't want to make macberly wait that long! So, here's this. Also, the names of the horses? Yep, totally intentional_.

* * *

**The Embassy of Harmonica:**

The newly-ascended Queen Bettina, upon the arrest of her traitorous uncle Otto, had wasted no time in declaring the Monkees to be honored heroes of Harmonica. Bestowing upon all of them kisses on their faces—giving an extra one to Davy, the Champion who had dueled for her—she looked to all of them in gratitude.

"Are you certain that you can't come to Harmonica with me?" she asked. She looked to Davy. "Not even for a little while?"

"I don't think so," the English boy said, seeming somewhat forlorn. "Sorry."

His bandmates were quick to sense this, and Mike made the assumption that Davy was still shaken by his narrow escape. He had, despite his valiant efforts, lost the duel against Otto and would have been skewered had Peter not announced that it was Midnight, and that Bettina was now queen.

Mike certainly didn't blame his younger friend; he was so sure his nerves had recovered, either—he hadn't even had a chance to try to reach out to him… to try to help him… All he could do was just stand there, helpless, as Otto held the tip of the blade to Davy's chest, ready to run him through…

The Texan suppressed a shudder. If anything, Davy probably was in a state of shock, albeit refusing to show it. The sooner they got him home, the better.

It wasn't for another couple hours that they were able to leave, given the send-off of heroes.

"I wish they hadn't done that," Davy said, glumly, as he threw himself into the front passenger seat of the Monkeemobile. "I don't feel like a hero at all."

"You did duel for the lady's honor," Micky reminded him, through his yawns.

"That was a heroic thing to do," agreed Peter.

"Yeah. Sure."

Mike would've cast a baffled glance at Davy had he not been driving. It sounded as though the English boy wasn't in shock after all; he sounded… bitter.

Micky and Peter certainly noticed; they exchanged glances with each other before deciding that Davy did not want to talk about it, and they decided that changing the subject would be the best thing for them.

It turned out that it wouldn't have mattered; Davy didn't take part in any conversation at all, and instead of heading to bed like Micky and Peter did upon reaching home, Davy crossed to the kitchen area.

"What are you doing?" Mike asked, halfway up the stairs.

"Making some coffee," Davy answered.

"…At 2:30 in the morning?! Tiny, get some sleep!"

Davy sighed, sitting down at the little table.

"I don't think I'll be able to sleep well for a while," he muttered.

Mike was down the stairs and by his side in an instant.

"You're okay now, though," he said. "It's all over; you don't have to worry. You're safe."

"Safe? What are you talking about?" Davy asked.

"…Isn't this about the duel?" Mike asked. "Specifically, the end of it?"

"Of course it is," Davy muttered. "I was _this_ close to winning the duel for Bettina, and I _lost_!"

Mike stared at him.

"Can we just run through your priorities for just a moment?" the Texan asked. "Davy, you were nearly turned into a shish-kebab!"

"Mike, you don't understand! I lost the duel—I was supposed to win! How can they call me a hero when I lost?!" Davy exclaimed. "I didn't earn the title of a hero! I didn't win! I failed! I failed _her_! I didn't do anything right!"

Mike seized him by the shoulders.

"I don't care," the Texan said. "I could've cared less if you had just run from him like a Texas prairie chicken. All that matters is that he didn't skewer you like he intended to. Do you know what it was like, from where I was standing?! Knowing that I was too far away to do anything… That I'd have to stand there and watch him run you through…!? And you're complaining about your pride getting wounded?!"

"Well…" Davy began, but he trailed off. Only now, he was beginning to appreciate his narrow escape—not so much because he had been nursing his wounded pride, but because his mind had hastily tried to banish the thought.

He gripped Mike's arm, and the Texan regretted his harsh words.

"Hey," he said. "You gave me a scare, okay? But, for what it's worth… You probably knew going into that fight that Otto was playing for keeps, didn't you?"

"Of course I knew that," Davy said, shuddering. "But we had to save Bettina. We had to…"

"…Sounds like a hero talking."

Davy looked up, managing a wan smile at Mike.

"Not quite the same thing as actually winning," he admitted. "But it helps."

"Glad to hear that," Mike replied. "And I'm just glad that you'll be around to try to save the day again."

"Fail to save the day again, you mean…" Davy sighed. "Every time I try to be a hero, something goes wrong. …That's what upsets me the most about this while, thing, actually. If I couldn't save Bettina when she needed me, what happens when you or Micky or Peter get into some sort of trouble, and you need my help to get you out of it—and I can't do it? I don't think I could deal with that."

"I don't think you'll have to," Mike said. "Davy, you've got the three of us watching your back, not to mention each other's. You shouldn't have to worry—"

"There you go again…" Davy sighed. "Mike, I don't want to be the one just sitting back and watching you three help me and each other, just because I'm the youngest or the smallest. I want to be able to jump right in and help someone, just like you always do. I want to be able to help Peter. I want to be able to help Micky. I want to be able help _you_."

Mike placed a hand on his younger friend's shoulder.

"Well, let me rephrase what I said before, then," Mike said. "You shouldn't have to worry, but if the moment comes, and I need your help… You'll be the one I call out to. I'll put my faith in you, Tiny. And you'll be my hero."

"And I won't let you down, Mike," Davy promised.

At least, he hoped so.

* * *

**New Gallifrey, Texas, a couple years later:**

Davy sighed as he relaxed on the porch of the ranch house that belonged to Mike's aunt Kate, just watching the scenes around him.

Oh, he had tried to find an opportunity to be a hero in the days following the disastrous duel against Otto. But none really turned up; the few chances he did have were simple, petty things—saving the others from a binding dance contract just didn't have quite the same feel to it. The others ended up saving the day from more important things; Micky got to impersonate Baby Face Morales and help the police round up his gang. Peter saved a Russian dancer who had a secret message in her shoes. And Mike… good old, reliable Mike… he had beaten the Devil himself.

And Mike was out saving the day again even as Davy sat there; Aunt Kate had called them back to New Gallifrey, Texas; Black Bart, released from prison, was at it again—and targeting the Nesmith ranch with a vengeance. Mike had refused to take that lying down; he had ridden out on his horse, Amy, to survey the outer areas of their spread and make sure that everything was as it should be.

Micky and Peter now joined Davy on the porch.

"There're other horses, you know," the blond offered. "You wanna go for a ride?"

"Yeah, we may as well," Davy said, getting up. That was the benefit of staying at the Nesmith Ranch; there was no shortage of horses—something that the English boy appreciated, given his love of riding.

But the three had only been halfway to the stables when a shrill whinny caught their attention. Amy, the mare, was galloping frantically towards them, and Mike wasn't with her; in fact, Mike was nowhere in sight.

Davy rushed out, grabbing Amy's reins and calming her down.

"Where's Mike?" Micky exclaimed, once Davy got the mare under control.

"I don't know, but I'm going to find out," the English boy insisted, leaping onto the horse's back. "You two grab two more horses from the stables and head on out, too; I'll meet up with you later!"

"Right!" Micky and Peter chorused.

Davy had ridden off in the direction Amy had come from, keeping his eyes open for any sign of Mike. Had he fallen off somewhere? Was he unconscious?

Amy suddenly came to a halt, whinnying in fright. There was a large dust cloud up ahead, and Davy could hear the bellows of furious bovines.

"Cattle stampede?" he asked, softly. "Yeah, they're longhorns… But what are they doing out here—?"

He cut his train of thought off at the pass, where it was quickly replaced by another, horrifying one.

"_Mike_…" he whispered.

He quickly urged the horse ahead towards the dust cloud, despite her resistance. As he got closer, he could see the individual bulls in the stampede—each of them bearing the same mark.

"They're Black Bart's cattle!" he gasped.

And then the truth sunk in. This had been deliberate. Black Bart had probably been waiting for Mike.

"Mike!" Davy yelled, frantically, as he rode parallel to the stampede. "_Mike_!?"

"DAVY!"

It was the most horrifying sound Davy had ever heard, despite it being his own name. Mike's voice—the voice that had won a court case against the Devil—was filled with an unbridled panic.

"Where are you?!" the English boy cried.

An answering cry from up ahead showed Davy the answer. His eyes widened further in horror upon seeing Mike holding onto the horns of one of the stampeding bulls for dear life. And he couldn't hold on for much longer.

Horror was quickly replaced by determination as Davy now urged Amy to gallop faster.

"Hold on!" he ordered, his voice miraculously calm and trying to be reassuring—just as Mike's usually was whenever Davy was in trouble. "Just hold on, Mike!"

Mike gritted his teeth, his arms feeling about ready to rebel and quit. He mentally repeated Davy's works as a mantra—a survival mantra.

"Faster, Amy!" Davy hissed, pushing the mare to gallop even faster.

The gap between him and Mike was closing now, slowly but surely—twenty feet… then fifteen… then ten… now five…

"Mike!" Davy yelled, holding onto Amy's reins with one hand as he leaned sideways out of the saddle, his other arm outstretched. "Mike, take my hand!"

The older boy could only give Davy a helpless glance. He couldn't let go; even just releasing one hand would likely cause him to fall…

"You have to!" Davy cried. "Mike, please! Remember your promise—and the promise I made in return!"

And, unbidden, came the words they had exchanged that night after the events at the Hamonican Embassy:

"_You'll be the one I call out to. I'll put my faith in you, Tiny. And you'll be my hero_."

"_And I won't let you down, Mike_."

The Texan boy drew a deep breath and reached for the English boy's hand.

He felt himself go flying off of the steer's back, but felt Davy's hand tightly grip his own. The sudden tug of gravity nearly pulled Davy off of the saddle, but he managed to remain, having wrapped Amy's reins around his other arm.

Mike's feet dangled in the empty air as Davy used his rein-wrapped arm to guide Amy away from the stampede and to relative safety; it was fortunate that he was so scrawny. At last, Davy had allowed Amy to slow down to a stop as they reached a safe point, and he pulled Mike up to the saddle.

Mike took a moment to catch his breath, as did Davy. And as the two of them exchanged glances, the sheer weight of what had just happened came crashing onto their shoulders. Mike drew the younger boy into a tight embrace, which Davy returned.

"Are you okay?!" Davy exclaimed, once his voice returned to him.

Mike still had to inhale and exhale a few more times before he could finally manage an answer.

"I will be," he said, his voice still with a noticeable quiver to it. "Thanks to you." He managed a flicker of a smile as he looked down at his little hero.

The air was soon filled with Micky and Peter's frantic calls as they finally caught up on two more horses—Rory and Melody; they were nowhere near as experienced riders as Davy had been, and had only been able to reach them now.

"You guys okay?" Micky asked, his eyes filled with concern.

"What happened?!" Peter added.

"Davy just saved my life," Mike said, still keeping an arm around the English boy's shoulders.

He launched into a semi-breathless explanation of how Black Bart had been waiting for him to look over the edge of the spread and had frightened his herd into stampeding. Amy, in her fright, had reared up on her hind legs, causing Mike to fall off as she fled; mercifully, he had held onto one of the bellowing bovines, though he had quickly been approaching the end of his tether.

"If Davy hadn't turned up when he did… I wouldn't have made it," Mike finished. He looked to his youngest companion. "Tiny, I owe you one."

"Yeah, Man," Micky said, shaking his head. "All those years of jockey training really came through."

"You're the hero of the day, Davy!" Peter said, trying to smile through his concern.

The English boy blinked.

"I guess I am…" he said, and he looked up at Mike again.

The Texan managed another weary smile.

"Is it everything you hoped it would be?" he asked, softly.

Davy shook his head.

"Seeing you okay was everything that I hoped for," the English boy responded, sincerely. "And I'm glad that came true."

"I second that!" Micky said.

"And I third it!" Peter insisted.

Mike let out another sigh, and a nod.

"Hey, listen, we've gotta get back to the ranch house and form some sort of plan," he said. "We can't let Black Bart get away with this."

He was met with three nods of agreement, and as they headed back to the ranch house, Davy took a moment to reflect on how he would be looking forward to seeing Black Bart answer for what he had tried to do.

Until then, though, he was more than content with the knowledge that his best friend was safe.


	13. Fading Through the Door, Part I

_Author's note: This one was inspired by a request from an Anon for a piece inspired by "Monkee Mother," so I started it… and, somehow, it just kept expanding and expanding, so I had to split it in pieces if I had any hope of being able to work on my other fic. I'm not sure how many pieces this'll be, so we'll just have to wait and see._

* * *

Visitors at all hours of the pad were not uncommon for the Monkees. Old friends, a few rivals, and the odd enemy always seemed to turn up. Sometimes, when they were lucky, it was a gig for all four of them.

And, sometimes, when they were not so lucky… it was a gig—for just one of them.

Davy hadn't known what to expect when he moved to answer the door. After yet another failed attempt to look through the peephole, Davy opened it to reveal Millie Rudnick. Well, that was what they had known her as; they had gotten so used to calling her that, the last name stuck, despite her marriage.

"Hey," Davy grinned. "How's it going?"

"Oh, it's going great, Davy—just great!" Millie said, grinning. "Hey, is Mike home?"

"Mike? He and Micky are out getting our meal fixings; it's just Peter and me right now—"

"Hi!" the blond called.

"Hi, Peter," Mille replied. "Well, can you two boys do me a favor? I need you to give this number to Mike."

She handed Davy a piece of paper.

"What's this for?"

"Well…" Millie sighed. "You know that time I was staying here with you boys? I asked Mike if there was anything I could do for him. And he just looked at me with those brown eyes of his and asked me to make him a success."

"Oh…" Davy said, softly.

Of course, that was Mike's dream. Ever since he had first met Mike, Davy knew that the Texan wished to be a success—name in lights, reaching the big time. It was something they had discussed when they were putting their Lone Star and Union Jack act together.

"_Listen, Tiny…" Mike had said. "Before we get started, you've gotta ask yourself something very important. What do you want out of this?"_

"_What do you mean?"_

"_What do you want Lone Star and Union Jack to do for you? What's your motivation for doing this?"_

"_Well," Davy had replied, after thinking about it. "I just want to have a good time, that's all—be happy making other people happy. And if I can charm a girl or two along the way, well…"_

_Mike had chuckled at that._

"_I think you'll have a good thing going with this, then, Tiny. You'll be just fine."_

"_Glad you think so. But what do you want out of it, Mike?" Davy had asked._

"_Same thing that I wanted to get when I left New Gallifrey," Mike had replied. "I want to be a success. I want people to look at me and say, 'There's Mike Nesmith—all the way from Texas. He started out as a nothing and a nobody, and, somehow, he made it. He became important.' That's what I want, Davy."_

"_Then I'll do my best to help you achieve that," the English boy had promised._

Davy brought himself back to the present as Millie started speaking again.

"Larry and I are helping this fella move to Phoenix," she said, indicating the name on the piece of paper. "He's a music producer, and he's getting together some country-western singers and songwriters. He's going to throw a little talent show for them, and he'll sign on the winner to a recording contract."

"Wow," Peter said, his eyes wide. "Mike would win that hands down!"

"You're not kidding," Millie said. "That's why I want him to give our client a call; he said he's more than willing to have Mike come along to Phoenix with us and take part in the talent show."

Davy stared at the piece of paper and then looked up to Millie.

"Right," he said. "We'll tell Mike as soon as he gets back."

Millie blinked.

"Is something wrong, Davy?"

"No, I'm fine," he promised, managing a smile. "Hey, thanks for this; I know Mike will appreciate it!"

Millie smiled back and left with a cheery wave, but Davy's smile faded as he closed the door after her.

"She's right; something's wrong with you," Peter said, folding his arms. "Davy, come on! I thought you'd be happy for Mike! …You're not jealous, are you?"

"Of course I'm not jealous!" Davy said. "Mike's our leader, and goodness knows that he's been wanting a chance like this for as long as I've known him! I'm happy for him; I really am!"

"Then… why the gloom?"

"If he wins this thing, he gets that contract," Davy explained. "He'd probably have to move down to Phoenix. And if that producer only wants country-western music, he won't want us there to complicate things."

"Oh," Peter said. His eyes widened as the words sunk in. "_Oh_…"

"Exactly," Davy said.

The blond absently plucked at the strings of his bass as he realized the full weight of the situation.

"What happens now?" he asked, after some time.

Davy sat down on the backless couch, staring at the paper.

"We have to tell him," he said. "Whether we like it or not. Mike has done so much for us; if the time has come that he needs to look after himself and…" He swallowed hard; the words were almost impossible to say. "…Leave us behind, then, as his friends, we owe it to him to say goodbye and good luck." He sighed. "I promised him that I would do my best to help him achieve his dream of being a success. If that means letting him go, then I have no choice but to keep my word and do it."

"I always thought that if we became successes, it'd be together," Peter said. "That's the way I wanted it…"

"That's the way I wanted it, too," Davy said. "But I don't like the idea of the three of us dragging down Mike. He feels obligated to stay with us and help us—so he never gets a chance to try to chase his own dream. I want him to be the success that he wants to be. Mike deserves that."

"I deserve what, now?" Mike asked, as he opened the front door in time to hear that last bit.

"Millie Rudnick was just here; she wanted us to give you the phone number of a music producer going to Phoenix…" Davy said, and he began to describe what happened as Mike and Micky brought in the groceries.

"Wow, Man," Micky sighed. "Mike, you'd be a shoe-in to win and get the contract!"

"Just like you've always wanted," Davy said. Micky clearly hadn't thought this through; Peter was trying to silently transmit the message to him, but it wasn't getting through.

Mike was eagerly rereading the name and number.

"I'd hate to ditch you guys," he said. "But if y'all think you can get along without me for a few days—"

"Hey, we'll be fine!" Micky said, not noticing the looks on Davy and Peter's faces. "You go for this thing!"

Mike didn't need telling twice; he was on the phone in an instant, calling up the producer and introducing himself.

"Isn't this great?" Micky said, watching him. "Our Mike's gonna get his big break at last—a recording contract! …Hey, what's with you two?"

"What happens when Mike wins that recording contract?" Davy asked, rhetorically.

"Well, he'll become famous, he'll go on tours and spend all his time with the…" Micky trailed off as the sudden realization struck him.

The three turned their attention to Mike, who was singing a few bars of "Oklahoma Backroom Dancer" over the phone. The grin on his face, though, was a wonderful sight to behold—they couldn't deny that.

"So… what do we do?" Micky said.

"Like I told Peter," Davy said. "We let him go, and wish him well."

Micky blinked, but nodded. Further discussion was halted as Mike got off the phone, grinning ear to ear and talking a mile a minute.

"Hey, fellas, I'm heading to Phoenix tomorrow morning; they're getting an early start tomorrow, so I'll probably be gone by the time you guys wake up, but the groceries are here, so y'all should be just fine. I'll be riding with them, so I'll leave the Monkeemobile here in case you need it. I'm just going to grab my guitar and some clothes and fine-tune some of these compositions tonight…"

He bounded up the stairs two at a time, still rambling.

"He hasn't even got the contract yet, and he's over the moon," Micky said. "Man, it'll be worth being a trio to see him so happy."

"I guess so," Peter said.

"Hey, Davy, you remember this?!" Mike said from the top of the stairs, pulling out the blue-star-studded white Stetson that Davy had given him for part of his Lone Star costume. "I got the whole suit up here, just waiting to be used at that Phoenix show!"

Davy tried to ignore the lump in his throat.

"Of course I remember it," he said. "I still have the Royal Guardsman's uniform you gave me, too."

"Well, I gotta thank you again for this; it'll be perfect!"

_Perfect would be all four of us getting that contract deal, like Peter said_, Davy thought. _I don't want to say goodbye, Mike. Not yet_.

He, Micky, and Peter soon busied themselves with making dinner. Mike was running around like a man possessed, stuffing clothes and sheet music into a bag, stopping to eat only as an afterthought.

The mix of emotions Davy was feeling was really getting to be too much. It was almost impossible not to feel happy at the look of sheer joy on Mike's face as he eagerly looked forward to his upcoming adventure.

On the other hand, it was equally impossible not to feel upset at the thought that this meal might very well be the last one that the four of them shared as a quartet. But he wasn't going to let on that he was upset—and, clearly, neither were Micky and Peter.

It wasn't the first time they had been faced with one of them leaving the group; Davy had nearly been forced to leave by his grandfather, after all. But that had been against Davy's will. If Mike got that contract, he would leave of his own free will.

And that's what made it hurt the most.

* * *

Mike was soon back to fine-tuning his tunes once dinnertime ended. He was promising to work well into the night; one by one, the other Monkees wished him good luck and retired for the night—first Micky, then Peter, and, lastly, Davy.

It was early the next morning—almost 6 AM—when Davy heard the sounds of shuffling around in the living room. He grabbed his robe and headed out in time to see Mike with his bag and guitar about to head out the door. He was wearing the Stetson instead of his wool hat, the rest of the suit obviously in his crammed bag.

"Hey, Tiny," the Texan grinned. "What're you doing up?"

"Thought I'd see you off," the English boy said, managing a smile. "I know I don't have to, but I've known you the longest, so…"

"Well, thanks," Mike said, placing the guitar case down long enough to give him a one-armed hug. "You and Mick and Pete keep it going, okay?"

"Of course we will."

"And try to stay out of trouble, huh?"

"Can't make any promises about that," Davy said, grinning in spite of himself.

Mike grinned back.

"Yeah, I reckon I'll find my own trouble down in Phoenix—makes me wish I could take you guys with me…"

Davy saw the wistful look in Mike's eyes for just a moment, and he felt the lump in his throat grow a little larger.

_Tell him now_, his mind ordered him. _Tell him you don't want him to leave—you don't want the group to become a trio_.

"Mike…?"

"Yeah?"

Davy opened his mouth, but then closed it again. He couldn't break his promise—the promise he made the day they formed their two-man group. He had promised to do his best to help Mike achieve his dream—that meant being happy for him and letting him go follow his own path, even if it led away from him.

Mike had given him a place to stay, started him off on a musical career, and, above all, given him more than four years of a loyal friendship. It was time to return the favor.

"Davy?" Mike asked, bringing him around.

"Just… go get 'em," the English boy said.

"You bet I will, Tiny; you bet I will."

He released Davy from the embrace, picked up his guitar, and opened the door. Looking back before crossing the threshold, he gave Davy another smile and tipped the brim of the Stetson.

Davy returned it until the door closed behind Mike, whereupon the smile was replaced by the tears he had successfully held back until that point.

"Goodbye, Mike," he whispered.


	14. Fading Through the Door, Part II

_Notes: And here's the continuation of the previous installment; I apologize for how late and how short it is; it was a very busy week… But, if it helps, there will be more._

* * *

Millie rode with Larry in the moving van on the way to Phoenix, and so Mike rode in the front passenger seat of the car belonging to the producer, Mr. Bartholomew—Barty, as he insisted Mike address him as.

"So, you've been in Los Angeles for how long?" Barty asked.

"Four years," Mike replied.

"Well, that explains why I've never heard of you before," Barty said. "Los Angeles isn't a place that tends to foster country singers—not with the current rock-and-roll craze. What have you been doing for four years?"

"Eh, well…" Mike said. "Made some buddies and we formed a band—you know how it is…"

"Ah, yeah—Millie mentioned you were in a group. Not doing too well, though, I imagine?"

"Let me put it this way; we're hungry at times, but we're not desperate," Mike said, honestly.

"Stick with me, Kiddo; you won't be hungry ever again," Barty promised. "From that bit you sang over the phone, you're a shoe-in for first place. Of course, the other judges need to agree with me, and I'm sure they will once they hear you."

The hours flew by, and it was well into the afternoon by the time they arrived at a motel.

"I've rented rooms for all of the participants coming in from out of town," Barty said. "You can have this one."

Mike's eyes widened, looking at the well-furnished room—definitely the best of all the motels that Mike had been in. A grin found its way to his face.

"Wow, Davy, would you look at…" Mike trailed off as he turned to the empty spot beside him—the spot where his little English friend would usually stand, and the grin vanished from his face. He spent a full minute staring at the empty space.

He suppressed the growing sigh and turned back to Barty with a forced smile.

"It's great," he said. "Hey, uh… can I use the phone to call California?"

"Go right ahead," Barty said. "You practice up; the show is tomorrow night. And, hey… win or lose, you know I could probably get some gigs around Phoenix for you—maybe even in some surrounding towns—over the next few weeks."

Mike looked to him.

"You'd do that?"

"When I see a rising star, I like to help give them a boost," Barty said. "I'll get in touch with some people tonight. …You don't have anything that would keep you from staying here, would you?"

Mike hesitated.

"I guess not," he said, after a moment. "Yeah, go ahead; I'll do it."

"Catch you later," Barty said, grinning.

Mike grinned back and then sobered after Barty left. He collected his thoughts for a moment and then headed to the phone.

* * *

The day was going by slowly back at the Pad. Nobody felt like doing anything; it just wasn't the same without Mike around. And though Micky and Peter managed to find something to do with their time, Davy was the one sitting around doing nothing, just thinking.

Micky and Peter had both tried to get Davy to do something, but he couldn't be cheered up.

"He's acting just like Mike was the time he got scammed," Peter said, softly.

"Do you think my Cagney impression will cheer him up?" Micky asked.

"I don't think so," the blond said. "Right now, the only thing that'll cheer him up is—"

He was interrupted by the phone ringing. Davy vaulted over the backless couch to answer it.

"Hello?!" he asked, eagerly, and his face finally managed a grin. "Mike!"

"That," Peter said, grinning also.

He and Micky now crowded around Davy, trying to hear what Mike was saying.

"You should see the size of this motel room, Tiny!" the Texan was saying. "And the furnishings!"

"I'm sure it's wonderful," the English boy said. "And we're glad you're enjoying it!"

"So, are you getting ready for that show?" Micky asked.

"Working on it," Mike answered. "I already made the solo adjustments last night; I just need to practice up a bit. The show is tomorrow night, but I've got time to talk to you guys. So, what're you guys up to?"

"Oh, we're… keeping busy," Davy lied, prompting Peter and Micky to give him a look. "You don't need to worry about us, Mike; we're handling things just fine!"

"Well, I'm glad to hear that," the Texan said. "Because I'll be staying in Phoenix for a few more weeks. Barty said that he's going to arrange a few gigs for me while I'm down here—going to get started making a name for myself."

Davy stared blankly at the wall as Peter and Micky exchanged glances.

"_A few __**weeks**_?" Micky mouthed, silently.

"Hello?" Mike called over the line. "You guys still there?"

"Yeah, we're still here," Davy said, snapping out of it. "That's great, Mike. Really great. You'll be fine; I just know it!"

"Yeah, you'll knock 'em dead!" Peter agreed.

"You'll steal a few hearts before your gigs are over, I'll bet!" Micky added.

"Well, I hope you're right," Mike said. "But will you three be okay without me for a few weeks? I didn't realize that I'd be staying that long…"

"We'll be fine," Davy said, though he was lying through his teeth. _No, we won't be fine; now I know we'll be losing you_…

"Glad to hear that," Mike said, sounding relieved. "If Mr. Babbitt comes by, my share of the rent is up in my room; it's under the photo album on the shelf. Oh, I'll give you guys the number of this motel room; call me if something comes up, okay? Or, you know… if you just wanna talk for a bit, you can call, too."

"You bet we will," Peter promised, as Micky wrote the number down. "But, for now, you'd better get practicing for your shows!"

"Right; I'll talk to y'all later!" Mike said, and he hung up after they had all exchanged goodbyes.

Micky sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Weeks," he repeated. "He's going to be so used to that kind of life—being a solo star—he won't ever want to come back to amateurs like us…"

"This is how it ends, then?" Davy asked, quietly. "I mean, is there even any point in trying to keep this thing together?"

"Well, I can think of one point," Peter said. "We need the money."

"Yeah, that's one point," Micky agreed. "Unfortunately, it's a pretty darn good one. We've got to keep ourselves fed."

"Then I'll do what Mike would do; I'll go search for a gig opportunity," Peter said, taking a handful of change from the petty cash jar. "This should get enough newspapers to find a potential gig or two! Just leave this to me!"

Davy watched him go before resuming his staring contest with the wall.

"Hey," Micky said. "Come on, Davy. Maybe it won't be all bad. Maybe he'll decide that he doesn't want to be a solo star—"

"Mike wants to be a success," Davy said. "If that means flying solo, he'll do it. And he's going to be great while we struggle along. I'm not jealous, but… He'll be with a whole new crowd now. He'll by flying higher and higher until he's out of our sight."

"I guess the only benefit is that one day we'll be able to say that we knew him," Micky said, forlornly. "People will come to us, and we'll be able to relate all the stories of the great Mike Nesmith back when he was just the regular Mike Nesmith. How about that time he pretended to romance that chick in that dance academy to stall for time? Or when he tried to stop that other chick from jumping out the window—before we found out that she was just an actress? Or how about when he was able to outwit that computer? People are going to want to hear these stories, and we'll be able to tell them all!"

"That's nice," Davy said, only paying half of his attention to what Micky was saying. "I've got some stories from when it was just the two of us."

"That's what this is about, isn't it?' Micky asked, softly. "I can imagine how you feel; you've known Mike for about as long as I've known Peter. If it had been Pete moving on like that, I'd have felt upset and abandoned."

Davy exhaled. That hadn't been the word he had been searching for, but it fit all the same. It was a harsh word to use, but Davy did feel as though Mike had agreed to those gigs fairly quickly.

_He could've at least talked to us about them before saying yes_, he thought, furiously. _We'd have said yes, even if we didn't like the idea_…

"Davy?"

The English boy looked to the brunet.

"Listen, Micky… I think I'd like to be alone for a while—just to get my thoughts together. Why don't you go to the beach for a bit? I'll catch up with you later."

Micky wasn't so sure he liked this idea, but he didn't want to argue with Davy; he was upset enough as it was, and Micky had, for a moment, considered calling Mike back to tell him how upset Davy was—and how all of them would've preferred having Mike back.

"Okay," he said. "But I'll be back in an hour."

"That'll be fine. Thanks, Micky."

Davy managed a wan smile as Micky left through the back door, leaving Davy with his thoughts. As far as he was concerned, the next few weeks would be merely a preparation for the future.

He knew had to mentally prepare for Mike's imminent departure. That meant learning to make it on his own. Mike had taught him for four years, and Davy had to put all that he learned to good use.

That meant that things would have to change—and change drastically. Maybe flying solo would be a good idea—for all of them.


	15. Fading Through the Door, Part III

_Notes: Gah, I am sorry for this taking so long; I wasn't quite sure where I wanted to go with it, but now I know. Also, I won't be focusing too much on Micky and Peter's side of this drama, as I'm sure PlushChrome has plans to cover that_.

* * *

Mike soon returned to his practicing once he had gotten off of the phone. It was… strange. Talking with Davy and the others had somehow put him in a worse mood than before, and he didn't understand it. Playing his music seemed to help, though; it was a way to lose himself in what he loved.

He was unaware of the shadows gathering under his door as he sang until he stopped playing and was pleasantly surprised to hear applause, followed by a knock on the door. He answered it to see a young man and woman about his age.

"Hi there," he said.

"Hi yourself," the girl said, her voice harboring a drawl to rival Mike's. "We could hear you clear out in the hall."

"Oh, sorry—"

"Don't you apologize; you were great," the boy said. "My sister here and I are goin' around, inviting all the other participants in this not-so-little contest to the diner down the street. You're welcome to come along, too."

Mike thought it over for a moment before shrugging.

"Sure, why not?" he mused.

"Great!" the girl said, grinning broadly. "I gotta say, you're the cutest one in the show so far—cuter than even my brother here. Name's Tanya, by the way—and this is Jim. We're the Rio Grande Raiders."

"I'm Mike, of the M…" He hesitated. "They call me Lone Star."

"Cute, and a fellow Texan," Tanya said. "I like him, Jim! I really like him!"

Jim rolled his eyes, but soon decided not think about it as another female country singer, this one all the way from Nashville led the rest of the participants down the corridor and caught his eye.

Mike made small talk with everyone as they headed to the diner, but once they were there, found himself reminiscing about California—specifically, the last time he and the other Monkees had been to a diner like this, and Micky had proceeded to work up a new comedy routine on the spot that had caused Mike and the others to laugh like buffoons the entire time. The girl behind the counter had been more amused than annoyed, thankfully, and had asked them if the four of them were brothers.

The four of them had stopped laughing for a moment as they ponded over how to answer that question, and it had been Davy who had replied with, "_Well, I guess we are, aren't we, Fellas?_"

And they had all agreed…

Mike sighed to himself, now realizing why the phone call had only made him feel worse. He missed them.

He was jolted from his thoughts as Tanya sat down on the stool beside him.

"What's eatin' you?" she asked. "You worried about the show? Don't be; you'll be great!"

"You haven't heard me in person—just through the door," Mike reminded her, with a wan smile.

"Aw, heck, if you sound that good through the door, well… Jim and I oughta be the ones worrying here! Hey, you aren't eating anything…"

"I'm a little short on cash right now," Mike said. "I just set aside my rent payment before coming here, and that didn't leave me with very much. I gotta save it."

"Aww. Well, you want anything to eat or drink? It'll be on me—a good luck present, not that you need it."

"Eh, just some coffee will tide me over. Thanks, by the way."

They made small talk as he drank his coffee, but a part of him was distracted; the coffee was good—excellent even. And yet, he found himself missing Micky's so-thick-you-can-chew-it coffee—the coffee that could give you a week's worth of insomnia if you had just a bit too much of it.

Mike sighed wistfully. Everything was reminding him of Malibu. Of home. But he shook the thoughts from his head; Tanya was trying to be nice to him, and he owed her his full attention.

"So whereabouts in Texas did you say you were from?" Tanya asked.

"New Gallifrey."

"Oh. I heard about that in the papers a couple months back!" she said. "Wasn't there some craze because oil was discovered?"

"Yeah—crude," Mike mused. "Right under my Aunt Kate's ranch. She's sitting on a gold mine—black gold, that is. She's not moving for the world though."

"Good for her!" Tanya said. "But what about the other rumors about New Gallifrey? Are they true, too? That story about the big, blue thing that… Oh, not again!"

Her sentence remained unfinished as a few teenage girls came inside the diner. They crossed to the jukebox and proceeded to play a Beatles tune on it, which seemed to have irked Tanya.

"Everywhere we go," she said. "They always come in and play something like that. I don't know what the deal is about long-haired English singers."

Mike bit his lip.

"Some of them are nice…"

"You really think so?" Tanya asked, her eyebrows arched. "I have a hard time believing that. Show me one of those English boys that can sing our kind of music, and maybe I'll believe you."

Mike smiled to himself, recalling the first time he heard Davy sing "Nine Times Blue."

"Oh, I can think of one…" he said.

"An English singer who sings country music?"

"He can," Mike said. "I taught him how."

"But he could never appreciate it! Those preppy, high-class boys would think country music would be too backwards for them! They'd think they're too good to sing country! Why would you even bother trying to teach him that?" Tanya asked, genuinely baffled. "What a waste…"

Mike's mouth went thin.

"I taught it to him because he wanted to learn—because he's my friend," he said, reaching into his pocket for what little money he had. "And I'm paying for my own coffee!"

Tanya blinked in surprise and shock as Mike slammed the money down on the counter and left without another word. How ironic… the number of times Davy had defended him against people who had sneered at Mike's folksy, country background, and here Mike was, defending Davy for being raised as a proper English gentleman.

Never once had Davy ever considered himself too good to perform country music. In fact, he enjoyed singing Mike's country-esque tunes just as much as his own favorites. And he certainly never thought himself to be better than Mike.

In fact, Davy held Mike in higher regard than Mike held himself; something that always seemed to sadden Davy was how harsh Mike was on himself, and he spent a lot of time trying to build up the Texan's morale.

No, Davy never thought he was too good to be a friend of Mike's. If anything, he felt that Mike was too good to be a friend to him.

Mike now made it back to his motel room, picking up his guitar and furiously getting back to work.

* * *

With Peter and Micky out, Davy had a lot of time on his hands to think. He had gone through his cash reserves, knowing that he had just enough to leave his share of the rent behind should he decide to leave….

But leave for where? Travel around California as a solo star? Or return to England? He winced at the latter thought, knowing that he wouldn't be able to live it down if he returned to his grandfather—making a permanent home for himself in the United States had been his dream, just as Mike had wanted to be a success.

He would stay, he decided. But he wouldn't be spending much time here in Malibu. Traveling… traveling all across the United States would be wonderful. And there was always the chance of running into Mike someday should their venues cross paths.

Eagerly thinking about the prospect of traveling around solo like Mike, he headed up to the room that Micky and Mike shared, knowing that the book of US highlights was up there, along with the atlas and other guidebooks. Davy had just placed his hand on the atlas when he noticed Mike's rent money envelope sticking out from under the photo album, just as Mike had said it would be.

Mike had bought that photo album after arriving in Malibu, and, at first, when Davy had seen it, it had been completely empty. Mike had said that he hadn't found anything worth remembering to put in there, and Davy had shrugged it off and hadn't bothered looking at it since.

But that was nearly four years ago. And since then, Davy had wondered if Mike had put anything into it.

Davy paused for a moment before taking the photo album off of the shelf and looking through it. Yes, there were things in there now. A lot of them were newspaper clippings, he realized—pictures of Mike and him as Lone Star and Union Jack, with a few regular pictures of them. There were pictures of a weekend trip they had taken in San Francisco—a trip that Davy had won two free train tickets to, and had finally gotten the good sense to ask Mike to come along after pondering over whom to ask to go with him. And then came the photo and newspaper article about how they had met Micky and Peter, and how the four of them had foiled that jade monkey robbery, thus developing their new name of the Monkees.

After that followed pictures and clippings of the shenanigans that had followed with the four of them together, all with headlines and captions that boasted of their adventures: _Rock Quartet Saves Queen Bettina of Harmonica_. _Rock Quartet Aids in Capture of Spies_. _Rock_ _Quartet Stops Mad Scientist_.

Davy gave a wan smile, realizing that this was what Mike found to be worth remembering. He should have known better than to think that Mike could just ditch them like that.

He closed the album and placed it back on the shelf.

"Someday, Mike," he promised. "When we're both solo stars after traveling around, chasing our dreams, we'll sing together on a stage again. Maybe even all four of us will be together again—who knows? But, until then, you keep on doing your best, okay? And I'll do the same."

He took the atlas and the guidebook from the shelf and headed back downstairs in time to see Peter and Micky reenter the Pad from the opposite doors.

"You feeling any better?" Micky asked. He hoped so; Davy didn't seem as down in the dumps, and there appeared to be a new fire and spark in his eyes—but that wasn't always a good sign, as previous experience had shown.

"I'm a lot better," Davy said, nodding at Micky. "More than that, I know what I have to do."

"Of course you do; we keep on singing—that's what!" Peter exclaimed, waving the newspaper in his hands. "We've got some advertisements for gigs here; we can just go through these."

Davy hesitated, but knew he had to make his announcement now.

"Actually, Peter, I think you and Micky should handle those on your own," he said. "I'll buy my own paper and look for gigs myself."

Peter went pale. He knew what Davy was trying to insinuate, and he didn't like it one bit.

"I… I told you, I just got a paper. You can look through it with us, you know. All of us can…"

"No, Peter," Davy said. "I meant that I want to look for solo gigs."

"Wha…?" Micky asked, his eyes going wide.

"Davy, not you, too!" Peter said, shaking his head, slowly, though he had known that was what Davy was going to say.

"I'm sorry, but… Well, I got to thinking and I realized that there's a lot out there that I want to see," Davy said. "I think it's time I chased after my dream, too. But we'll keep in touch, I promise!"

He grabbed a handful of money from the petty cash jar.

"I'd hate to steal any potential gigs from you two, so I'll let you look over that paper and go out and buy my own right now—a different paper. I'll pay back this money later," he promised.

"No, don't bother," Peter said, softly. "This place will always be your home. Don't you ever forget that."

"I won't," Davy promised, managing a smile at the others. "And thanks for understanding."

_No, I don't understand_, Peter thought. _But we've got to let you go, just like we did for Mike_.

Micky just stood there and stammered unintelligibly as Davy waved to them and headed out the door.

"How…? Why…? But…!" he said, his arms extended towards the door in disbelief. "Pete, what just happened here!?"

Peter looked down at his feet for a moment, and then looked at the newspaper still in his hands.

"I think… our band just broke up."


	16. Fading Through the Door, Part IV

The next three weeks were among the busiest—and loneliest—that the former quartet ever had. Micky and Peter decided to try to continue on as The Connecticut Yankee and the California Dreamer, just as they had before. Success had been very limited; though they managed to get a few gigs, just like before, it wasn't enough to make their share of the next rent payment—after all, when it had been just the two of them, they had been nomadic, not staying in a beachhouse.

Peter made the heartbreaking decision to pawn his beloved bass—just temporarily, until they worked long enough at a regular job to cover the rent payment.

Had Davy been aware of Micky and Peter's plight, he surely would've helped. As it was, he had no idea. His first few nights flying solo had been so successful, he had soon been asked to sing all over southern California; he had left Malibu some time ago and the last Micky and Peter heard from him, had been somewhere near Anaheim. Davy had tried to keep in touch, but as he got busier and busier, his calls grew more and more infrequent. Micky tried to convince both Peter and himself that this was a good thing… somehow.

Mike's calls were growing more and more infrequent, as well, only they didn't realize that he had been trying to call frequently earlier, only to have no one pick up. In fact, ever since his tiff with Tanya at the diner, he had been trying to call—to speak to a friendly voice. And he was slightly hurt the next day when he realized that none of them had called to wish him good luck at the contest. Had something happened since his last call to them? But they had all sounded so happy…

He was forced to push the thought aside and return to concentrating on the contest. He played his very best, as did all the other contestants. In fact, they were all so good, Barty announced that he and the other judges needed more time to select the winner. He was more than willing to let everyone stay in their motel rooms free of charge, though several of the contestants—including Jim and Tanya—ended up following Mike on his tour of the Phoenix area, just to listen to him sing.

Mike honestly couldn't care less about who was following him and why; he was more concerned as to why his calls to Malibu weren't getting answered. But when it got to the point that even the messages he had left with the Urgent Answering Service, he resigned himself to the fact that his friends must've found gigs to keep them busy, or were having a great time out of town. Or, perhaps, it was a combination of both, and they had managed to get gigs out of Malibu, and were having a vacation.

"See? I knew you guys would make it on your own just fine…" he mused aloud, as he hung up the silent phone for the umpteenth time. "Now I guess it's my turn to make it, huh? I'll make y'all proud."

And he continued to fully immerse himself in the private tour that Barty had set up for him.

Tanya was still walking on eggshells around Mike and was keeping her distance, but the other contestants were soon understanding why Barty had arranged the private tour for him, and congratulated him every chance they got.

And no one was disappointed. Mike wowed the crowd with solo versions of his very best compositions—"Nine Times Blue," "Tapioca Tundra," "You Just May Be the One," and more. There was only one song of his that he didn't sing during the tour—"Listen to the Band." He had tried practicing it several times, and had found a lump in his throat stopping him every single time. It was disappointing to do so, but Mike removed the song from his setlist, wondering why he wasn't able to sing it.

Fortunately, he had no problems with any of his other songs; the crowd screamed louder and louder as he finished each one, and the cheers increased night after night.

He had to admit, he was loving it. And yet… a part of him felt as though something was missing.

The night after his tour wrapped up, Tanya approached him.

"Look," she said. "I just… wanted to say how wonderful you were on the tour. And to congratulate you—Barty's going to announce the contest winner tonight, and I wanted to be the first."

"Well," Mike said, wary. "I haven't won yet. The judges are still mulling it over in there…"

"Oh, come on; we all know you're going to win," Tanya said. "Actually, there's something else I wanted to tell you."

"Yeah?"

"I wanted to… apologize for what happened in the diner the other night. I shouldn't have insulted your friend. I know you wouldn't have taught him your songs if you didn't think he was good enough for them."

Mike blinked.

"Well, uh… That's… that's nice of you to say."

"And… I'm going to try to listen to some of those English singers," Tanya continued. "You got me interested, and I'm curious. I mean, look at this guy in the newspaper here… he's been making a name for himself in California, and he's made the papers _here_. I guess he's got to be good if he can manage that."

She handed him a newsprint article, but before Mike could look at it, he was suddenly distracted by Barty, flanked with the other contestants.

"Well, it's official, Mike," the producer said. "The judges unanimously declared you the winner!"

"Really?" he asked, baffled at the news.

"Well, don't sound so surprised," Barty said, clapping him on the back. "You're a very talented young man; unfortunately, your talents are wasted on those city slickers in California. You've got people who can appreciate you here."

Mike shrugged. The others had always appreciated his talents. Still, the love of a crowd… that was what he had wanted…

Barty was now ushering him back to his office.

"Jim and Tanya won second place; it was very close," he said. "Imagine if it was the three of you—you'd be a force to be reckoned with! …But I guess you'd rather fly solo, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah, I guess I've been getting used to the whole solo set…" Mike began, but he trailed off, finally noticing the article that Tanya had handed to him.

Davy's picture was at the top, with a small headline underneath:

_**Rising English Star Continues Solo Shows in Southern California**_

"What…?" Mike asked, aloud.

It made less sense as he read it—why would Davy be doing solo shows without Micky and Peter? And where were they?

Barty's voice brought Mike to the present.

"You ready to sign that contract, Mike?"

"I… ah…" Mike trailed off, looking up at Barty. "There's something I need to do before I sign. Something back in California."

* * *

Barty wasn't going to question Mike, and Mike appreciated that. He willingly allowed Mike to go back to California in his private jet, also inviting anyone else who wanted to come along. Jim and Tanya were among the other contestants who agreed to join them; also with them were Millie and her husband, who had stayed in the Phoenix area.

The first order of business was a short stop in Malibu. He had been heading back to the beachhouse to see if anyone was there.

And it was as he passed a pawn shop window that he froze in his tracks, seeing Peter's bass there. It didn't take him long to use some of his tour earnings to buy it back—though he later discovered that this may not have been the best course of action, as he returned to the Pad to find Micky trying to console an inconsolable Peter, who had been just about ready to buy his bass back.

"Didn't mean to upset you, Shotgun; I got it back for you," the Texan said.

"Oh, thanks, Mike. …MIKE!"

The bass was all but forgotten as Micky and Peter joyously hugged their friend. But the absence of their youngest comrade was all too noticeable.

"What happened?" Mike asked, looking to Peter and Davy's room. The closet door was opened, and most of Davy's things were gone. "No, wait. Never mind. I know what happened. He never wanted me to go, did he?"

"None of us did," Peter said. "We all knew we'd miss you, and Davy…"

"He took it really hard," Micky finished. "Of course he would, right? I mean, he's known you the longest, and…"

"…And I should've realized that he would've been that upset," Mike sighed. "But I was too busy with my head up in the clouds. I've got to get back in touch with him; do you guys have his hotel phone number?"

They shook their heads.

"We've hardly been home," Micky said. "We did a few gigs—just the two of us—and then we spent the rest of the time trying to get the rent money the hard way."

"We'd have made it, though," Peter promised him. "We'd just earned enough to get my bass back—so we could've done some more gigs again…"

"You guys can fill me in on the whole story on the way," Mike said, placing a hand on Peter's shoulder. "Grab your instruments and come on."

"Our instruments? Now?" Micky asked, blinking in surprise. "Why? Where are we going?"

Mike merely smiled in response, taking out the newspaper clipping that Tanya had given him.

"Anaheim."

The smiles on Micky and Peter's faces told Mike that they knew exactly what he was planning.

Though, as they headed back to rejoin Barty in a limo he had rented, Peter was starting to look a little worried.

"But what if Davy doesn't want to be in the band anymore?" he wondered aloud, as they got into the limo. "The newspapers keep saying that he's doing so well on his own. He doesn't really need us to be a success."

"I'm guessing you don't need us, either," Micky added to Mike. "You won the contest, didn't you? That's why you managed to get this private transport."

"That's right—he did win," Barty said, overhearing them as they took their seats. "But he asked for me to bring him here—said he wanted his friends to be there when he signed that contract."

"I'm just a sentimental fool, ain't I?" Mike mused. "Yeah, I wanted you guys to be there. That's why I want one last gig—all four of us—before we go our separate ways. Davy doesn't have to do anything he doesn't want to."

"Oh," Peter said, quietly.

He and Micky exchanged glances. And Micky knew what he was trying to say. It was only a temporary reprieve, but, with a little luck, this exposure to the crowd in Anaheim would be enough to give the Connecticut Yankee and the California dreamer some publicity—so that they could all be successes.

And yet, that wasn't the way Peter wanted it. If they could be successes, why couldn't it be together?

* * *

Davy had to admit that he had been surprised by how quickly his solo career had taken off in the three weeks he had ventured forth. It had started with singing at dinner clubs, and, somehow, people in the audience had included an awed producer who had whisked him away to Anaheim.

It was a bit hauntingly familiar—the sudden soar into stardom he had received during his very brief stint as a boxer. But that was different. That had been a trick; this was real—his real talent… the real talent that Mike had told him to believe in when he had been upset at being called a fake over the boxing incident…

Davy inwardly winced. Thinking about Mike hurt—he wanted to be singing with him and Micky and Peter again, just like before. As it was, the English boy just had to hold on to the idea that they would all be successes this way. That was the most important thing, wasn't it? It was what they had all wanted…

He was jolted from his thoughts as a stagehand knocked on his dressing room door.

"You're on in five, Mr. Jones."

Davy sighed, preparing himself for another full house. But the uneasiness vanished as he walked out on stage, grinning broadly to his audience. He, too, continued to wow the crowd more and more with each passing night.

He launched into his favorites, including "I Wanna Be Free" and "Daydream Believer," but also singing his own versions of some of Mike's songs. And though "Papa Gene's Blues" and "Nine Times Blues" were second nature to him—being among the songs he used to sing when he was part of Lone Star and Union Jack—he always had trouble with "Listen to the Band." He had, however, been much better about getting past that block than Mike himself had been over the past few weeks.

And it was with determination that he began to sing it again, oblivious to the sounds of arguing just offstage.

The argument was due to Mike, Micky, and Peter only just arriving. The three had wanted to surprise Davy onstage, but Davy's producer was not at all willing to let them go. Barty tried to point out that Mike was a rising star in Phoenix, but the other producer was completely unimpressed.

As the argument between the two producers continued, Mike froze as he heard Davy begin to sing "Listen to the Band."

At that point, instinct took over. He didn't care about the crowd or the two arguing producers—not even the fact that this was Davy's solo show, and that he had absolutely no right to intrude upon it.

All that matter was that, after three weeks, Mike was finally ready to sing that song once again.

Davy had already started to sing by the time Mike had slipped past the two producers and onto the stage.

Davy was so absorbed in the song that he didn't even notice Mike walking up to him—not until the Texan started singing along, much to the utter befuddlement of the crowd.

Davy turned to face him so fast, Mike was afraid the younger boy would pull a muscle in his neck. His companion regarded him with an astounded expression before breaking into one of the biggest grins Mike had ever seen Davy with.

The producers had just noticed this; Barty seemed pleased, while Davy's producer did not. Nor was he pleased when Peter and Micky barreled out onto the stage, singing along, as well.

The crowd, still baffled, decided that whatever was going on, they liked it. They clapped along, cheering when they finished.

It was with another broad grin that Davy introduced Mike, Micky, and Peter to the crowd. And as they launched into the rest of the setlist together—once again, for one more night, as the Monkees—their spirits remained high and continued to remain so as they walked off the stage with their arms around each other's shoulders, doing their signature walk.

Though irked, Davy's producer reluctantly had to admit that the crowd loved this twist. Plus, Davy seemed more than thrilled at what had transpired.

"But if you ever pull a stunt like this again…" he began.

"I assure you, it won't happen again," Barty said. "Mr. Nesmith only wanted one last gig with Mr. Jones and these two young men before he signed on with me and returned to Arizona. And I would request you to sign on Mr. Jones to a contract, as well, to doubly ensure that this doesn't happen."

"Um… Actually, Barty?" Mike said. "You're gonna hate me for this, I know, but… I'm going to concede my first place victory in the contest. That means that Jim and Tanya win the contract."

"What!?" Barty exclaimed, looking at Mike in disbelief. "But your career! You were the one who said that you wanted to be a success!"

"I did say that, and I meant it—every bit of it," Mike said. "But what I didn't realize was that I didn't need to be a solo star to be a success. I was a success already—not in the notary sense, but… I had my bandmates, and we were doing alright. But then I just ran off without a second thought, chasing after a dream that, despite being good, wasn't as good as what I already had. I was ready to sign that solo contract—I really was. But being out there on stage with my bandmates…" He drew them all to his sides. "That's where it's at. If I'm going to be a musical success, I want to be a success with them."

Davy's producer now looked at him, pleadingly.

"You're not going to refuse to sign, too, are you?"

Davy gave him an apologetic smile.

"Some things are more important than money," he said, the full force of his bottled-up emotions from the last three weeks threatening to break free. "I missed them all so much, and… I realized I made a mistake, too."

"You're making a mistake _now_," the producer moaned, massaging the bridge of his nose. "You're letting a fortune slip through your fingers."

"That goes for you, too, Mike," Barty said. "Country stars are rare—very rare. You could be a rich man."

"Well, seeing as though I've got three friends worth their weight in gold, I reckon I'm pretty wealthy already," Mike said, as Davy nodded in agreement.

The wheedling and coaxing of the producers did no good; together once again, the Monkees were not about to let that go. And as they aimlessly wandered backstage, thinking about what had happened to them, there was also an exchange of heartfelt apologies.

"I shouldn't have ditched you guys like that," Mike said.

"Me, too," Davy agreed.

"Oh, pshaw," Micky said. "You guys got to know what it was like."

Peter nodded in agreement.

"And what matters is that you came back," he added.

"I'll say it did," a fifth voice said.

They turned to see a familiar, elderly woman smiling at all of them as she saw them together once again.

"Millie!" Mike blinked in surprise. "I don't get it… You were the one who told me about Barty—why are you so happy that I turned him down?"

"Because this is what I wanted you to realize," she said. "You were already doing what you loved, and you had the love of three wonderful friends who were more like brothers. You already had everything you needed; you _were_ a success. So when you told me that you wanted me to make you a success, I was surprised."

She placed a hand on Mike shoulder.

"I knew that just telling you that wouldn't have made you feel any better. You had to realize it on your own. And now, all four of you have realized it. Best of all, I know you four will never let anyone come between you guys again." She smiled. "Hey, listen; I don't think Barty will be so keen on giving you a ride back to Malibu. Larry's got the moving van; catch up with us at the diner down the street after dinner, and we'll give you kids a ride back—if you don't mind sitting in the back of the van…"

"I think we'll be fine with that," Mike said, with a smile, as the others nodded in agreement.

It was after Millie left that Mike shook his head.

"Man, I can't believe how stupid I was. She's right; I had all I needed with you guys. Heck, I even wrote a line in 'Papa Gene's Blues' that said as much…"

"Well, sometimes, it's just plain easy to miss what's right in front of your face," Peter said. "Think about it—it's so close, it's out of focus, and you can't—"

"I think they get it," Micky said, patting Peter on the shoulder. The brunet suddenly blushed as his stomach growled. "…And that reminds me that we haven't eaten a thing all day…"

"There's a whole bunch of food in my dressing room," Davy said, smiling. "We can all feast on that before we head back; it'll be a while before we have a free meal again."

"You guys sit tight; Micky and I will get it!" Peter said, wanting to discuss with Micky how lucky they were to have their friends back—and whether or not they'd have realized what they'd had if it had been the two of them meeting with solo success.

Mike and Davy watched them go, noticing that while Micky and Peter were in their eight-button shirts, Mike was still in his glittery, blue-and-white cowboy getup. Davy was wearing a white tuxedo, and it was as they glanced at each other that they couldn't help but smirk at their costume choices.

"At least yours suits you," Davy said.

"Don't sell yourself short; you're looking pretty good yourself," the Texan said. He paused. "Listen, Tiny… I really am sorry for running out on you like that."

"I did the same…"

"Yeah, but… I should've seen it in your face when you saw me off that morning—you didn't want me to go. Why didn't you say anything?"

"How could I? I know you always talked about being a success; I didn't want to take it away from you."

"And I appreciate that," Mike said. "But when Mick and Pete get back, I think it'll be time to make another one of our vows—and this is one vow I expect you to keep. We've gotta be honest with each other, and that means no hiding things just because you think it's the right thing to do. If there's something I need to know, you've gotta let me know. And that goes for all of us."

Davy gave him a smile.

"This is one vow I know I'll be able to keep," he promised.

"That's the way," Mike said, with a smile. "We've all been through too much together to let something like this happen again. But, I guess… in a weird way, I'm kinda glad that it did happen."

"What do you mean?"

"It's like Pete said—sometimes, the important things are right in front of your face. You just need something to put it all into perspective."

"I get it," Davy said, nodding. "And I'm just glad that we were able to fix it in time." He hesitated. "I just hope that when the next crisis occurs, we'll be able to fix that in time, too, before anything else happens."

"I wouldn't worry about that, Tiny," Mike assured him.

"Really? You wouldn't? Why?"

"We've got the dream team back together again," the Texan explained. "And I'd say that is all that we need."

"No more than we had before," Davy said, smirking.

He and Mike exchanged glances and they both headed off towards the dressing room to help Micky and Peter get the food, the both of them loudly singing "Papa Gene's Blues" in perfect harmony. And in the back of their heads, they were also thinking of another one of Mike's songs—because if, in the end, they did go their separate ways (which they now knew they would not), the lessons they'd learned here were, indeed, worth it all.

* * *

_And, at last, this story arc is complete! However, this story collection is far from finished; I'll still be working on it, and I'll still be accepting requests—though if my readers did request something within the last couple of months, I'm afraid I may have lost it, so feel free to leave another request, either in a review/comment, PM, or drop a note in my tumblr askbox_.


	17. Laugh

_Notes: This one, based on "Some Like it Lukewarm," was done as a request for an anon reviewer_.

* * *

As the leader, Mike knew that it was, sometimes, his unpleasant duty to get his bandmates to perform tasks that they did not want to do. Usually, this consisted of nothing more than arguing over whose turn it was to take out the trash. But, sometimes, it involved doing something on the humiliating side.

Mike had done his share of humiliating tasks; in fact, he would've gladly stuck his neck out for his bandmates and do all of those tasks if he could. But, sometimes, it just wasn't feasible—meaning that one of the others would have to take one for the team. Usually, after some initial griping and complaining, they were okay with it.

Usually.

And that was why Mike was surprised to see Davy looking particularly put-out after they had returned from that radio station gig with the West Minstrel Abbies. The girls had spared Davy from continuing to have to masquerade as a girl, and as they all performed "She Hangs Out," Mike had assumed that everything was fine.

It was during the after-party that he noticed that Davy seemed to be purposefully avoiding him—and not just because he was trying to charm one of the girls, either. And Mike knew that something was _really_ wrong when Davy chose to sit in the backseat of the Monkeemobile to avoid sitting beside him on the way back home. The Texan bit his lip, knowing that there was no mistaking the English boy's mood.

Micky and Peter had noticed, too, and their attempts to cheer Davy up met with some success, but anytime Mike tried to speak with him, Davy either ignored him or, once they had reached him, would grab some food or hide in his room.

It was only after Peter decided to turn in that Davy took the opportunity to slip out the back door of the Pad while Mike and Micky wished the blond goodnight. They all saw him, though, but Mike game them the "Trust me; I'll handle it" look and followed Davy's footprints in the sand until he caught up with him.

"Hey, Tiny," he offered.

Davy didn't even look back; he just kept walking.

"Oooo-kay," Mike said, out loud. "I get it. Clearly, I've done something, and I'm pretty sure I know what it is. Look, Davy… I'm sorry I forced you to dress up like a chick. I know it was dishonest to do that for the contest, and I'm glad you called us out on it before you took it too far. You were right, and I was wrong."

Mike blinked as Davy shot a dark look over his shoulder at him.

"You mean that's not it?" Mike asked. "Okay, can you help me out here, Tiny?"

"You could start with stopping that 'Tiny' bit!" Davy shot back.

"What the…?" Mike asked, genuinely baffled. "But I've always called you that!"

"Oh, I know," Davy said. "Now I'm wondering _why_ you always called me that. I realized something during this last escapade; I realized that for more than four years, the Great and Fearless Leader I always thought so highly of always saw me as nothing more than a teeny little midget, worth only for a laugh at my expense! Now I'm wondering if your little moniker for me was meant to be some joke, as well!"

"Now wait just a minute!" Mike said, frowning at this revelation. "Where do you get that from?"

"Oh, I don't know," Davy said, sarcastically. "Maybe it was because my Great and Fearless Leader, upon seeing me in the most humiliating moment of my life, decided that the best course of action was to throw his head back and laugh!"

Mike stood there, gobsmacked, but now finally understanding.

"Oh," he said, awkwardly.

He hadn't been able to resist at the time. In hindsight, though, he should've realized that a laugh had been the one thing Davy had not needed.

"And as if that wasn't enough," Davy went on. "When I tried to hide during the audition to prevent any further embarrassment, the Great and Fearless Leader keeps pulling me back into the spotlight and getting the others to help him do it! Oh, I bet you just loved that, didn't you—keeping me in nothing short of a headlock?"

"I'm sorry, Davy… I don't really have a leg to stand on."

"…What…?" the English boy asked, surprised by the sudden agreement.

"You're right—again. I shouldn't have laughed at you, and I shouldn't have held you onstage. And I shouldn't have forced you to wear that get-up, either," Mike said. "I don't know what I was thinking…"

Davy's anger seemed to recede as he stared at Mike.

"Well…" he conceded. "It was dishonest for the whole contest, yeah, but… Being forced to wear it wasn't half as bad as seeing you laughing at it."

"Davy, really… I'm so sorry. You reminded me of someone I knew back in New Gallifrey, so I just…" Mike trailed off, shaking his head. "You know what? Never mind that. It's no excuse."

Davy blinked, surprised that Mike was beating himself up about it—an apology or a few would've been enough; he hadn't wanted this."

"It's okay," he said. "I'm fine—really. I can't really blame you, can I? I must've been quite a sight… It's amazing that the others didn't laugh, really… To be honest, I don't even know why it was bothering me at all. I mean, it's not the first time I've been laughed at—why should I mind?"

Mike's lips twitched in an attempt to smile, which Davy returned.

"Yeah, I reckon we've all had our moments of being laughingstocks, haven't we?" the Texan asked. "I mean… When I first started out here by myself, I used to get laughed at all the time."

"You?"

"Are you kiddin' me? One look at me and how awkward I am? One word with this accent? They couldn't shut up about it. On the other hand, it's how I knew you'd be my little pal—you were the first city slicker who didn't laugh at me…" Mike winced as he trailed off. "Oh boy…"

"What?"

"_Now_ I get why you were so upset when I laughed. It's because you never laughed at me. And there I was, laughing at you… Man, you must've felt like I stabbed you in the back, didn't you?"

Davy blinked, not even realizing it until Mike had voiced it.

"I… er…"

"Of course that's what it was," Mike said, furious with himself. "What was I thinking?" He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, Tiny."

"…And I'm sorry for sulking about it all evening long," Davy said. He grinned. "Friends again?"

"'Course we are," Mike said. "And I promise you now—I won't ask you to dress up as a chick for… oh, at least thirty years. That fair enough?"

"Just as long as you promise not to laugh the next time I'm stuck with it…"

"I promise. I'll even make it a vow if you'd like."

"No need for that," Davy said. "Anyway, I've got at least thirty years before I need to start worrying about that again—if at all. I mean, what sort of chick would I be impersonating when I'm that old, anyway?"

"Ethel Merman?"

"…You must be joking."

As it turned out, though, Mike's prediction would, in fact, come true—with Davy doing the impersonation in an outfit that could only be described as an alarming shade of pink. But Mike was also true to his word—his face was completely deadpan throughout Davy's entire charade.

And that alone made all the difference.


	18. The Power of Words

_Notes: This piece was inspired by two requests, first from a reader who requested a scenario with Davy being very ill, and a second request for a piece inspired by "Monkee Mayor." The first half also focuses on my headcanon for TV-Davy, and why he was raised by his grandfather_.

* * *

**Malibu, CA; four years prior:**

Since their friendship had formed, Davy was spending noticeably less time away from the Pad and more time working on the music with Mike. As the gigs started increasing thanks to word of mouth, they found themselves busier than ever before, even though they each divided the work—Mike doing the writing and guitar-playing while Davy focused on developing a song-and-dance routine for each song.

This often led to them pushing each other to the brink of exhaustion—Davy especially, who also had school to deal with. Mike, having quit his waiter job, could now use the day to focus on his writing. But Davy often had to develop his routines well into the night. He was very careful not to let Mike know this, however; he knew the Texan would berate him for not getting enough sleep.

But Mike wasn't as unobservant as he seemed; he noticed the days when Davy hobbled out of the Pad half-asleep. He had intended to say something about it—especially one morning when Davy looked rather pale as he headed out.

"You okay, Tiny?"

"Yeah, I'm… just a little under the weather," the boy said. "It's nothing, though; I'll be fine."

Mike knew that it was anything but fine; Davy really did look as though he in desperate need of rest. But before Mike could tell him not to go to school, Davy was already out the door.

Both common sense and a sixth sense told Mike that he ought to go follow him and bring him back; he ignored both of those, instead deciding to whip up another batch of Aunt Kate's remedy; it had helped Davy feel better the last time, and it would hopefully work its miracle again.

As he spent the next several hours tending to the remedy and to straightening out Davy's room so that he could go straight to bed upon his return, Mike had to take a moment to reflect that, somewhere along the line, he really had taken on the responsibilities of an elder brother. It was… new, really. Sure, he had grown up with his younger cousins in New Gallifrey, but Lucy and Clara often went about their own business and let Mike go about his; Mike never really caught on to Lucy's love of nature walks or to Clara's love of baking soufflés, and they didn't share his passion for music, either.

Davy had been the first one who cared about music as much as he did—and, more than that, he had been the first true friend that Mike had made outside his family; the fair-weather friends Mike had grown up with had no further place in his life.

The Texan sighed, reclining on the backless couch once his tasks were done. Malibu was a very long way from New Gallifrey, but his journey had been worth it. He had sought fame and fortune as a musician, and though seeing his name in lights still eluded him, Mike had found something far more precious instead.

With these thoughts in mind, Mike decided to let himself doze off; Davy would be back soon; it was almost 2:30. But the sound of the opening door—which Mike had been planning to use as an impromptu alarm clock—never came, and when Mike opened his eyes again, it was almost 4:00.

He swore under his breath as he got up; ever since the first time they had been worried about each other, they had never failed to let the other know if they were delayed or would be late. This… this wasn't good.

The Texan grabbed the phone and called the school. His frustrations were quickly growing by the second as he was being given the runaround; just about every person he spoke to refused to tell him anything, saying that as he was not a relative or legal guardian of Davy, they were not at liberty to tell him anything.

"His family and legal guardian are plumb on the other side of the world!" he finally bellowed over the phone. "Where is he?!"

Finally a secretary answered him with a squeak.

"He… he's in the school infirmary, Sir; he took ill this morning, shortly after classes started."

"Why wasn't I called?!" Mike demanded.

"Because, Sir, when the school term began, he didn't list anyone as an emergency contact other than his grandfather—and we can't seem to get ahold of him."

Mike blinked. Of course—that had been before their friendship had formed.

"Well, good luck trying to get ahold of a guy in England," the Texan said, at last. "Never mind that; how is Davy?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you, Sir; you're not—"

"Oh, forget it!" Mike snarled, slamming the phone down.

This was getting him nowhere, and he wasn't about to stand for it any longer. It wasn't that he didn't trust them to take care of Davy; heck, they were far more qualified to look after him than Mike could ever hope to be. But that didn't change that poor Davy was lying sick and alone.

Mike had quit his job just so that Davy wouldn't have had to tackle the flu on his own. He certainly couldn't let this go any farther.

* * *

Unfortunately, when Mike arrived at the school infirmary, the runaround was even more prevalent. Once again, no one was telling him anything as to where Davy was or what was wrong with him, and the real slap in the face was their insistence that only family members were allowed to visit infirmary patients.

So desperate was Mike that he resorted to using a spare food cart as an impromptu cover as he covertly traveled the halls, looking for his friend. His efforts were, eventually, rewarded; he found Davy resting in one of the rooms, looking far, far worse than he had in the morning. It suddenly became clear that exhaustion was not the problem here, but that the sleepless nights had been the straws that had broken the camel's back.

"Davy?" he asked, softly.

The younger boy's eyes snapped open in surprise.

"Mike…!" he quietly exclaimed. "You mean they actually called you in after all?"

"You kidding? No one told me anything, so I took matters into my own hands—came here to check on you after you didn't show up. How are you?"

"I feel like I'm twisted up in knots inside," Davy replied, wincing in pain. "I… I heard them mention something about transferring me—that I needed my appendix out."

"What…!?"

"They don't know for sure…"

Mike just cursed under his breath again, grateful that he had taken action as quickly as he had; if Davy had been shipped off to a hospital, there's no way the school would've bothered to tell him which one.

"…Okay," he said. "Well… The first thing we gotta do is not panic—"

"Excuse me!" a voice exclaimed from behind him, causing the Texan to jump a foot in the air.

"Don't do that…" he said, as Davy gulped; the one who had just entered was a nurse, who glanced at Mike, unimpressed.

"What are you doing here?" she inquired. "Only family members are allowed to visit patients in our infirmary. Just who are you?"

"Me? I'm, uh…" Mike trailed off as a lightbulb went off in his head, and he gestured to Davy. "I'm his brother."

Fortunately, Davy was too ill for his face to betray his surprise.

"…His brother?" the nurse repeated.

"Well, yeah!" Mike said. "You know how it works, right? I look out for the kid, make sure he's okay, and all of that." He now stood beside Davy's bed. "If y'all hadn't given me the runaround, I could've told you that!"

The nurse arched an eyebrow in suspicion.

"Well, never mind." She turned to Davy. "We're going to be transporting you to the nearest general hospital; we really don't have any time for a delay. Do you want your… brother to go with you?"

"Yes, please," Davy said. "Well… If he wants to, of course…"

"You think I'd let you go alone?" Mike asked. He turned to the nurse. "I'm going with him."

She nodded and left the room again.

"Thank you," Davy said, quietly.

"I'm not about to let some arbitrary rule stop me from being there for you. You're going to be okay, and I'm going to be right there."

"That's not what I meant—though thanks for that, too. I meant… what you said just now, about being my brother—I could tell that you meant it."

"I was just realizing how much you've grown on me," Mike mused. "I mean… First we were just roommates. Then we were friends. Then we were bandmates. I'd say we've reached the point of brothers, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah," Davy said, softly. "I always wanted one, you know."

Mike hesitated.

"You know, you've never really told me much about your family, other than your gramps being your guardian."

"Well, he had to be my guardian," Davy sighed. "My sisters were away at boarding school for most of the year, and, well… I… didn't really have anyone else after the accident." He looked away.

"You mean…?"

"I was five when I lost them. I… guess I was a bit angry, you know. I know they didn't mean for it to happen, but it really felt like they'd just… left. For a very long time, I tried to make myself believe I didn't want or need anyone."

"…And that's why you came to California," Mike finished. He sympathized with his friend; Mike, too, had come to California to get away from his life, albeit for a different reason—the friends he had made had been poisonous ones, and Mike had attempted to seal his heart away to prevent another such betrayal.

"I figured that if I didn't get close to anyone, they couldn't possibly leave," Davy explained.

"But then I came along and messed up your plans, huh?"

Davy's answer was preempted as the medics came in, preparing to move him.

"Mike…?" Davy whispered, softly.

"Yeah?"

"…You're not gonna leave, too, are you?"

He was scared—anyone could see that. Scared for his own fate—whatever it may be—but also scared that he was, one day, going to lose the brother he hadn't intended to find.

Mike gave him a reassuring smile.

"Of course not. You're stuck with me, Tiny. Better get used to it." He felt a sense of accomplishment as Davy let out a slightly relieved smile.

Mike eventually got a chance to sigh in relief later, at the hospital, after the procedure was done and he was informed that Davy would be just fine. Mike spent every moment by his side as he recovered; there was little he could do other than offer some brotherly words of comfort.

But, in the end, it turned out to be more than enough.

* * *

**Malibu, CA; four years later:**

Much like the flu incident, Davy never forgot the words of comfort Mike had given him through his terrible ordeal. Their friendship had emerged even stronger after that. And Mike soon found himself playing big brother to Micky and Peter as they came along and ended up staying.

Mike prided himself in being the leader of the band, and it was a responsibility that he took very, very seriously. Needless to say, the times when he felt as though he had let the down were the very worst moments of his life.

It was after his failed bid as Mayor of Malibu that he hit one of those points—being forced to admit on live television that he had been tricked by Mr. Zekenbush and would, therefore, withdraw his candidacy.

And that was when it dawned on him—this wasn't just sitting around the house and failing. This was walking around the _entire city_ and failing. True, the incumbent mayor promised him that the zoning plans for the parking lots would be changed, but, even so, Mike had wanted to be the one to win that crusade.

It wasn't the untold number of people watching his humiliating surrender that got to him; it was the looks upon his bandmates' faces—the ones who had been right by his side every step of the way, cheering him on and going all-out to help him win… The looks in their eyes were practically screaming "_Why, Mike, why?_"

And the drive home had been pure torture. People on the street who recognized him from the posters and the telecast were pointing and talking. Some of them laughed. Some of them sneered. And his bandmates obligingly snarled back at those who sought to ridicule him, only to be laughed at themselves for backing up Mike's failed campaign.

And there were the special late editions of the papers everywhere they went, displaying Mike's picture along with a snide headline. When Mike parked the Monkeemobile back outside the Pad again, he immediately got out and went for a walk.

"Mike?" Peter called.

"You guys gotta get everyone outta the Pad," the Texan said. "Help 'em pack; I'll be back in a bit."

"But—" Micky began.

"Just do it, will ya?!" Mike said, a little more harshly than he had intended.

"I'll handle this," Davy said, softly. "Get the packing started and then join us at the beach—give me fifteen minutes."

Micky and Peter nodded, and Davy quietly followed Mike down to the beach. He watched as the Texan angrily kicked a discarded soda can into oblivion. The English boy cleared his throat, causing Mike to whirl around and glare at him.

"I thought I told you to help with the packing!"

"I didn't quite fancy that job," Davy said, offhandedly.

"Well, I'd like to be alone, if you don't mind, so if you could go back and help the others—"

"I can't," Davy said, folding his arms. "It's my privilege."

Mike frowned, but said nothing, kicking another soda can.

So many times when Davy had been upset or hurt in the past, with no way to do anything about it, Mike had resorted to words. It had been Mike's words that had kept Davy calm during his ordeal in the infirmary, among other things.

And now it was time to pay Mike back.

"You know, déjà vu can be a very interesting thing," Davy said. "I seem to remember that it was right here, on this same stretch of beach a year ago, that you gave me a talking-to when I wanted to prove to the world that I wasn't a boxing sham." He suppressed a smile as Mike's shoulders went rigid. "You remember, don't you? My name was in all the papers, all of them trying to make me look like I was in on Sholto's scam… I was angry and upset, and I wanted to be alone in my misery, too. But you wouldn't let me."

Mike now looked back to him.

"You're not letting me, either, are you?"

"Nope," Davy said, with a smile. "I can't do anything to stop the papers ridiculing you, just like how you couldn't stop them from doing it to me. And that makes me feel terrible, because neither of us deserved that."

"You certainly didn't…" Mike agreed.

"And neither did you," Davy insisted. "The whole reason you ran for mayor was to stop the zoning project from tearing the neighbor's houses down. And you succeeded. More than that, you did the right thing by not playing Zeckenbush's game and telling everyone about it right there. It takes a good man to admit that he made a mistake." He smiled. "And you're the best man I know."

Mike just exhaled, not fully convinced.

"I'm not just saying that," Davy said, reading his mind. "Why else did Micky, Peter, and I back you up? Why'd we unanimously agree to have you lead us? You always figure out what needs to be done."

"I didn't _do_ anything this time," Mike. "I was stopped before I could!"

"You said what needed to be said," Davy countered. "Just like you've always done. I know you want to be able to fix everything, but you can't. And when you can't, you always know what to say."

"And what difference does that make?"

"All the difference in the world," Davy said, softly. "You know, that day when I was in the infirmary, four years ago… If you hadn't shown up when you did, I don't think I would've been able to keep it together. And what about when I wanted to quit the band and become a real prizefighter to prove the papers wrong? You remember what you told me?"

Mike looked back at him as Davy placed gently placed his finger on Mike's throat.

"'What you've got here,'" he quoted. "'That's no sham.'"

At last, a smile began to work its way onto the Texan's face, and, encouraged by this, Davy continued.

"You're not a politician, Mike; that's not for you—just like boxing wasn't for me. We're musicians. …That's good enough, isn't it?"

"I reckon it's more than good enough," Mike said, the smile fully breaking through. "Ya know, you're not too shabby with the whole 'power of words' thing yourself."

"Well, of course," Davy answered. "I learned from the best, didn't I?"

And now the Texan found himself at a loss for words. Silently, he drew the English boy to his side in a one-armed hug, which he returned.

And when Micky and Peter showed up a few minutes later, as per Davy's instructions, Mike discovered that Davy was not the only one who had picked up on the power of words, as well.

And that was when the realization truly hit home. This wasn't the life of a failure.

He was a success.


End file.
